


Over the Hills, Far Away

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Curtain Fic, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:58:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in the middle of season seven, this world careens towards the left.<br/>Dean looks at Sam and decides enough is enough. They need to settle down for a while, take a breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Domestic AU, takes place after Cas takes Sam's hallucinations. A self-indulgent comfort fic. It's the fic version of home-made cookies and milk.

**ROOF**  


**_Sam_ **

"So, this place, it's a place—it's something Dad thought—hoped—that he'd need one day. Maybe."

"Jesus, Dean. Stop talking in riddles. Giving me a headache."

"You gotta headache? Want me to pull over—is it? Are you—"

"It's just a headache, Dean, just a normal, annoying, fucking headache. Brought on by being _annoyed."_

"Fuck you too," Dean muttered like Sam couldn't hear him, then stepped on the gas, just like he always did when he was being a dick. Sam ignored him but after a bit, curiosity got the best of him.

"Well? What about Dad's damn mystery place, then?" he snapped, and Dean rolled his eyes. Dick.

"Nothin'. We're almost there, anyways." 

Sam sighed and rolled his own eyes. Great. Best ride of his life. Stuck in the car, legs aching from hours shoved into a space that had been too small for him since high school…Dean hunched over the wheel and locked up like a curse box. Fan-fucking-tastic.

***

A half hour later, the car slowed and rolled up a slight incline. The ground under the tires crunched and creaked with the sound of gravel being pushed into dirt as they crawled to a stop. Dean shut the car off and sat, apparently listening to the engine cool in the pitch black night. "Okay…this is it," he said. "Gonna be rough for a few days before I sort it all out but. Gives us a place to stay for a while."

Sam grunted and shoved the car door open, grabbed his bag out of the back seat. "Well? Gonna open the door or…?"

"Right. Coming. Lemme get the key out…" Dean staggered when he stepped out of the car, slamming his hand down on the roof to keep from falling. Sam made a face and ignored Dean's stumbling around the car. It was his own fault for insisting on driving miles and miles past the point he should have stopped and let Sam take over. 

Dean trudged up to the dark house in front of them without waiting for Sam, picking out the way with a flashlight. The weak light bobbled to a stop at the door and with some jiggling of the handle, a little cursing, and a kick or two, it sprung open. "There," Dean said. 

Sam stared into the pitch black inside that wasn't much different than the pitch black outside…maybe a little blacker. 

"Stand here, don’t move," Dean said and went back out to the car. Sam stood, not moving, not caring…hell, barely breathing. It was quiet—super quiet. Still as the grave. He was deciding if maybe screaming was an option, when he felt Dean at his back. "Here," Dean said and shoved something thick and squishy into Sam's arms. Sam gasped and almost dropped it before his brain provided _sleeping bag_ and he squeezed it hard. 

"Lemme see…" he could hear Dean moving around the place, more bumping, more cursing. Thumping and banging and then, thin white light lit a corner of the dark. Sam could barely make out a room, all the corners rounded off by the dim light of the battery-powered lamp. Dean laid a familiar worn nylon sleeping bag out across the rough looking floorboards and Sam looked down at the bundle Dean had shoved in his arms and exhaled. _Yeah. Sleeping bag. Of course._ Caught Dean giving him a funny look but Sam ignored it and shook his bag out. 

"Get some sleep, Sam. We'll start getting shit organized in the morning."

Sam had no idea what that meant but he was tired. Took his boots off and shoved himself into the bag, sparing a half a moment for thinking about spiders and bugs that lived in abandoned dumps and crawled into small moist places, before passing out.

***

Morning light didn't make much of a difference. It was still dark in the place, and from what he could see in the crack of the open doorway, it looked like they were somewhere in the assback of nowhere. Another cabin hidden in the woods, Sam thought. No one around but him and his brother and a countdown to murder/suicide….

"Hey," Dean called out and shoved the door wide open, letting sunlight stream in. He carried a paper tray holding two cups and a bag of something that smelled good. "Got bagels. There's jam and butter and one of those little cups of cream cheese in there, too."

"Really? Thanks…" Sam juggled a warm bagel and a hot coffee, staring stupidly at the over-caffeinated cow or deer or possibly dog plastered across the take-out cup, wondering where…how…"I thought. I thought we were up in the woods somewhere, that you…we're gonna low-profile it, right…?"

Dean stopped sipping at his own coffee and stared at Sam, giving him that look, the one where his eyes got huge and round and pretty, not that Sam cared about the pretty part. It was the round part that was important, the part that meant Dean was about to flip his shit. But he didn't. He just inhaled and looked like he was counting to ten. "We're not hiding. We're _resting._ Okay, we're hiding a little. We're outside of a place called Millville. About fifteen minutes from a strip mall. And a coffee shop." Dean waved his cup at Sam, "Twenty minutes from the town. This is Dad's place."

_Dad's place?_ What the fuck did that mean? Sam squinted at Dean. Bullshit, there was no way this… _house…_ was Dad's. "No, it's not. If Dad had a place somewhere normal, there's no way you'd have been able to keep it from me."

"Yeah well, it's not just some of the Winchesters who are good at keeping things hidden."

Sam wanted to smack Dean, smack him like the bitchy little girl he was, but didn't. He gulped down a swallow of pretty good coffee and faced away from Dean. Pretended like he was staring at something through a window so grimy it was almost opaque. 

"Dad had this place for when it was all over," Dean said, not getting that Sam just wanted him to shut the fuck up and leave him alone. "For when the time came we could start over again." He stopped, sighed heavily before going on. "Look, I get that it's not exactly time to start over and there's a lot of shit waiting for us but…you need to sit shit out a little. Pull yourself back together."

"I'm as together as possible. And last thing I want is to hide out with you in the 'burbs or wherever."

"I know that, okay? But let's just. Shit, _I_ need to take a breather if you don't, so do you mind?"

Sam hated his liar of a brother but at the moment he was kind of dependent on him, so he just nodded and didn't say anything else.

***

Dean pulled the thick brown paper that had been stapled and taped over some of the windows off. Light oozed in and reluctantly lit the rooms. Sam was surprised to see that the inside of the place was…average. Plain. Weirdly normal. Somehow, he thought any place his dad settled in would've looked like a paramilitary sorcerer's camp instead of some place just waiting for the hand of a soccer mom to make it shine.

So. Here was the place John Winchester had planned to come to, after it was done. Sam inhaled, shoulders going high, chest filling, he held it until he was forced to exhale. Yeah. The old man hadn't bought this place for himself. Sam knew who he'd bought it for, for his…for Dean, more than likely. Dad had apparently always held some idea that Dean needed a place to put down roots, that this was something Dean craved. Sam cut his brother a look. Dean was bent over one of the war bag, muttering to himself and making a racket. He came up with a triumphant grin, holding something that was not a gun or a knife or a censer….

It was a tape measure. A really fucking big, bright orange, tape measure. Dean caught him staring. "What? We need to know how big the windows are, dude. You have to buy curtains."

"Curtains? What the hell for?"

"Maybe you want people looking in the windows but I'm not an exhibitionist like that. Freak."

"Yes, you are," Sam muttered and walked to one of the front windows, trying to keep his eye on Dean and look out the window, too. 

Well. The view certainly nailed home that this wasn't the remote mountain cabin he'd imagined. Sure, might be a good sprint between this place and the next but…there were neighbors within shouting distance. There was a front yard, a driveway, a garage…some kind of tree, a fucking apple tree, fruit still green and clinging to the branches. He dug his thumbs into the corners of his eyes and wondered what the hell was wrong with him, why all this just made him so _angry._ Jesus—"What the hell had the man been thinking?" Sam growled. "Where the fuck did this all come from? Who the _hell_ did he think was going to be stupid enough to want this?"

The hurt look that flashed across Dean's face sparked a flicker of guilt, but Sam shoved it back down on top of the tons and tons of other shit he'd shoved down his own throat. Waited for the evil chortle of glee he'd come to see as part of his waking life now…nothing. No one crowing in his ear about what a dick he was, what a pathetic little lovelorn girl…the presence he'd suffered for centuries gone but not really gone…. 

Dean jammed the tape measure onto his belt. "Whatever. We're staying here, like it or not, okay? So you just—just shut the fuck up and deal."

 

Sam yanked himself away from the window, and jerked when he realized Dean was right behind him now. His heart raced, he smothered a yelp but Dean caught it. 

"Sam…" Dean raised his hands and Sam flinched back so hard it felt like his back popped. He felt his face flame as he went red, and he rushed out of the house. He took off for the back yard, needing to be away from Dean and his eyes, big, accusing, staring, blaming eyes.

***

Sam wandered around behind the house, eyeing the little porch off what he guessed must be the kitchen door, waiting for Dean to slam through it but he didn't. Sam shook all over, his hair falling into his eyes in a way it hadn't since he'd been a kid—blew out a sharp breath and took off down the center of the yard away from the house, his only thought in putting some distance between himself and Dean…more distance.

He waded through pools of neglected grass—the thick strands nearly thigh high, beige and green and sage. He was surprised. He had no idea an almost suburban back yard could behave so much like…a…a wilderness. He almost expected to hear the cough of some predator stretched out lurking in the grass. The half lawn, half meadow spread out behind the house, wide, deep. Here and there were pockets of shrubs clumped together and were punctuated with scrubby, spindly trees. A power pylon broke up there view, bisecting the clear blue sky. That was going to fuck the hell out of any EMF readings…though the house was John's; it was probably warded and supe-proofed up the ass. 

A garage sat a few yards to the side of the house, double doors hanging open to an empty space. He could see big, black grease spots on the concrete floor as he passed, some heavy duty chains hung down from exposed rafters. Looked like someone had a working garage at one point…Dean might like that. He wasn't sure but it looked like maybe a truck or a van was parked in the rear of the building. He'd let Dean know....

Behind the garage were a couple of falling down, rusty sheds, no discernible purpose to them. It didn't look like anything had ever been purposely put in the ground—the trees and shrubs were probably volunteers from somewhere, birdshit, probably, or squirrels…and for extra surprise grins, he'd discovered the ground at the farthest part of the yard was riddled with booby traps. He'd tripped over bits of machinery hunkering down in the weeds and rusting into nothing, had fallen down twice what with jamming his foot into a hole or a tunnel under the soil—each time flooded with relief he hadn't broken an ankle. He guessed that the holes were from groundhogs or moles or maybe chupacabras, big as the damn things were. Sam made himself a promise that tomorrow, bright and early, he was coming out armed and shooting the fuck out of those little bastards. 

A blunt, furry snout popped up out of the ground a couple of yards away and gave him a beady-eyed, appraising gaze before disappearing again…Sam sighed. What the fuck. Maybe he'd just scare them really bad.

When he limped back up to the rear of the house, he found the kitchen door open and more importantly, he smelled food.

Dean was sitting with his back pressed against one wall, staring at the open door. Between his spread feet, there was a box of pizza on the floor. 

Sam stopped and gave the box a puzzled look. "How'd you get pizza?"

"Dude. Told you. Mall down the road. Pizza place delivers."

"But I was only gone a few minutes."

Dean gave him one of _those_ looks. "You were gone for like, an hour, little more," he said, in that artificially patient way that made Sam want to kneecap him. Sam tried taking calming, healing breaths but he couldn't find the least thread of calm to hold onto. He was pissed off, so fucking mad all the time and damn it, it was exhausting. Exhausting. 

Dean nudged the box towards Sam with something like a smile curling the edges of his lips. "Can you sit down and eat something? I know we have to talk, but you gotta eat something first."

Sam snatched a slice and waited for the noise, the soundtrack of disgust that usually accompanied food but the inside of his head was silent. "I don't hear anything," and only realized he'd said it out loud when Dean replied. Sam ignored him and put all his concentration into eating.

The pizza was pretty good, considering. 


	2. Chapter 2

**  
_Dean_   
**

Dean stalked through the packed steel-shelved aisles, boots cracking against the concrete floors. He wasn't pissed, exactly, he was…worried. About Sam. He sighed, and flicked through his shopping list again, tried to concentrate on screwdrivers and hammers, not on the way Sam seemed smaller nowadays. The damn kid looked like…well, like he'd come out of the ass-end of a really bad time. He looked sick and too thin; his skin was pasty and gray where it wasn't red. Eggplant purple smudges under his eyes made them look narrow and dark. He looked the kind of sick that people shied away from and then tried not to stare. It made Dean sick to his stomach, made him mad that people were avoiding his brother. _His_ brother. Sam, who just had too much heart, always had. He worried too much, cared too much, gave his heart way too easily and got knocked down hard for it. Every single time. 

Dean's eyes prickled and blurred. He flinched, horrified that he'd been on the edge of crying, _out in public,_ what the serious fuck. He drew in a shallow, shuddery breath. He and his brother both had been way too long teetering on the edge of losing it completely. They were _owed_ a few weeks leave, damn it. 

Dean viciously wrestled down the image of a pale, small figure lost on a hospital bed, bright blue eyes clouded by visions that didn't belong to him, wrestling demons not his own. Dean almost put his eyes out jabbing at the damp skin under them, and cursed angels and demons and runaway destiny.

He shook his head and took one of those 'calming' breaths Sam used to always go on about. Couldn't say it made a difference. Fuck it. He turned his attention to the list in his hand, glaring at it until he could see it clearly again. He glanced over to track Sam poking through a bin full of mini-flashlights. The kid was wandering around the crap dump, that section of bins near the registers, full of key chains and three foot measuring tapes and colorful zip ties that broke if you sneezed on them and itty-bitty screwdrivers that stripped out under more pressure than it took to punch through a piece of paper—stuff that was pretty much useless but managed to be fascinating anyway. 

Today all they really needed was cleaning stuff and the bare basics but soon…Dean eyed up the lumber aisles. They'd have to do some real work to make the place more than barely livable, and that was his plan. Make the house decent for Sam. Even if it was only going to be a couple of weeks…well, whatever whatever. They'd hash everything else out when Sam looked less like he was going to snap in a stiff breeze.

***

They offloaded their supplies, and set in to sweeping out what seemed like years' worth of dust and cobwebs, untold thousands of dried husks of dead bugs…"what the fuck, did they all come here to die?" Dean mumbled.

Sam snorted and pushed a hummock of thick grey dust out of the front door. He worked his way into the kitchen while Dean swept crap out of the living room area. A few minutes later Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when Sam let out a startled yelp of pain. He was just rounding the corner into the kitchen, struggling to keep fear off his face when he saw Sam punch a cabinet door.

"I hate this fucking place." Sam slammed the cabinet door shut and it rebounded and smacked him in the forehead, apparently not for the first time. Dean's eyes went round, he blinked—hard. Rolled his lips in tight and whipped around to face away from Sam, but not before Sam caught his struggle not to laugh. 

"Fuck you," Sam snarled. He slammed the door again and this time when it snapped back open, it clipped his ear. "Mother fuck!" 

Sam clapped a hand over his suddenly crimson ear and Dean did his level best to keep the laughter muffled. "Dude," he said breathlessly, "you keep slamming it like that, it's gonna keep slapping you back—the catches are shot."

"I have no damn idea what that even means," Sam snapped. 

Dean sidled up and opened the door, pointed at where something had been and was no more. "Magnetic catches, see where the magnet part has dropped off?"

Frustration and what-all had Sam lashing out in typical Winchesterese. "I hate this kitchen, I hate that you have some kind of hard-on for this stupid place, I _hate_ being here. I hate—everything," he hissed and stomped out of the sorry excuse for a kitchen. 

Dean shut the cabinet door carefully and leaned his head against it.

***

**  
_Sam_   
**  
The kitchen was so silent it rang in Sam's ears. No slam of cabinet doors or bang of a drawer, no cracking creak of the floorboards. It was really, really quiet, so much so Sam couldn't stop himself from sneaking a look at the driveway—stupid. Dean would've passed him if he'd decided to take off. Sam snatched his sleeping bag from the living room floor and tossed it into one of the rooms at the top of the stairs. He shut the door behind him.

Sam hadn't even known he was asleep until Dean woke him. 

"Hey. I made something to eat. We gotta chill on calling out for food. Until we get some money. Or something." He looked away from Sam, not meeting his eyes. 

They ate bologna and cheese sandwiches in silence and after they cleared the table, Dean handed Sam the keys to the car. "The chargers are in the car. Why don’t you take care of the phones…or whatever you wanna do. I'm gonna go upstairs and, y'know. Do stuff." 

"Wow. That was eloquent," Sam said and immediately wanted to take it back when Dean nodded, gave him a twisted little smile.

"Yeah." Dean left the table, went upstairs. Sam heard a door shut—forcefully. Sam sat at the table for a while, staring at the keys…he sat there until his hands trembled and his jaw ached from grinding his teeth together. He slapped the keys on the table. Got up and dumped the paper plates they used in the garbage. 

An hour passed before Dean came back down the stairs. They eyeballed each other, Dean looked wary, like Sam was going to bumrush him. Sam just stared back, watching Dean's iris' shift color. He said, "Phones still aren't charged," and Dean sighed, the expression chasing over his face an odd mixture of relief and fatigue. Sam held the phones out to him and Dean took them, both of his hands covering Sam's for a moment and surprising Sam by how warm they were. When Dean took them away and stepped back, Sam felt an odd sense of loss.

"S'not that important. We can do that tomorrow," Dean said and Sam nodded, slouched off upstairs to his—the room—to sleep.

***

The smell of eggs and bacon cooking woke Sam up, and he smiled when he realized he wasn't dreaming. He fished his pants off the floor, pulled them up and shoved his feet in his boots, tramped down the stairs and followed the smell outside.

Dean was standing in the back yard, cooking on a tiny disposable grill. "Hey," he called out when he saw Sam. "Two more days and we get power hooked up. Because I'm awesome. And Frank's awesomer. He was really thorough with the IDs, Mr. Smith. We got everything from checking accounts to brand-spankin' new social security numbers." He reached in his back pocket. "Stopped by our drop box in town, picked these up." He flipped Sam a filled plastic ID holder.

As annoyed as Sam was that Dean had apparently been planning for them to drop out for a while, without telling him, he had to smile a little. Dean was entirely too smug and pleased with himself. "Yeah," he shuffled through the ID and snorted. "Mr… _Anderson,_ is it?" Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's wide, happy grin. 

"Yup. Dean Anderson. Sounds really…" He waved the spatula around. "Solid. Normal."

"Yeah…you know the guy who played McGyver was named Richard Dean Anderson." Sam got ready to tease the hell out of Dean but stopped when his brother's eyes went wide and round with glee. 

"See?" He gave Sam a smug grin and flipped an egg and some bacon onto a plate for Sam, levered two pieces of buttered, toasted bread out of the little iron skillet. 

"Fried bread! Great." Sam smiled up at Dean and Dean took it as the apology that Sam meant it to be. The smile he gave Sam back was wide and clear. 

They sat on the steps and ate, drank giant cups of take-out coffee. Sam tried a few experimental prods inside his mind, waiting for the noise, waiting to be assaulted in his own head but it was quiet. There was no one on the steps except himself and Dean....  
Dean drank his coffee and stared out into the wilderness that was the back yard and he looked…relaxed. At least, more relaxed than he had in a long time. Sam felt a few tension-paralyzed muscles start to tentatively unlock….

***

"We start with the walls. Get 'em cleaned and primed, get that wallpaper down, fuckin' ugly stuff. Next comes the floor…there's spots here and there that need work. And the porch, that's a death-dealing accident waiting to happen."

Sam stared at Dean. "How do you know how to do all this? When?"

Dean shrugged. "When I dropped out of school, I did pick-up work sometimes: yard work, painting, house stuff. You were mostly busy being a geek and didn't notice. Then, y'know, I worked some rehab jobs while you…you were at college." He inhaled, and let it out on a laugh. "Besides, the joints we stayed at, we needed to know a bit about everything. It wasn't all glamorous credit card fraud all the time. And then…" Dean froze momentarily, a hugely uncomfortable look on his face. "And there was…the, unh, the construction job I worked that year, you know…"

Sam jumped in, talking over Dean. It was the least he could do. "Hey, not like I can't do a little too. I know my way around some plumbing, simple electrical work…stuff like that."

"I wasn't saying that you don't know anything, I know you do. You know a lot about a lot of stuff, Sam."

Sam nodded, and then laughed. "I just started to feel like. Shit, I don't know, the little woman." 

Dean laughed too and slapped Sam on the back, looped his arm around his neck." I know, honey, I know. And just so _you_ know, I still totally respect you."

"Shut up," Sam muttered and elbowed Dean in the side.

***

Dean was already gone the next morning when Sam woke up. He shook off the uneasiness—he knew where Dean was, he'd just gone to the lumberyard, he'd be back in a little bit. Sam told himself that as he showered, his back aching a bit as he bent into the spray so he could get his hair wet. He told himself that while he dried off and dressed.

He was a little more at ease when he found coffee in the pot, still warm, and Dean's version of a breakfast sandwich sitting on a napkin on the counter. He grabbed the sandwich and a cup of coffee and dragged one of the kitchen chairs out onto the porch. He plopped down and made short work of the sandwich. Normally he'd never eat one of the grease-laden, yolk-dripping excuses for breakfast that Dean insisted was good food but today, he just wiped yolk off his chin and wolfed the damn thing down. It made him feel content in some way, satisfied something deep down. 

He was just getting to the bottom of the coffee cup when the old truck he'd seen behind the shed rolled up to the property. Sam watched the truck chug up the drive, a big ladder hanging out the back. Dean waved, put the truck in park and jumped out to the driveway. How the hell Dean got the thing running, Sam couldn't imagine. But that was Dean, pulling miracles out of flesh and metal.

When Dean caught Sam looking, he spread his arms wide and waggled his eyebrows until Sam rolled his eyes. "You know you're in awe." Dean said. "You're so impressed I got this rust bucket running again." 

Sam snorted and Dean grinned impossibly wider, before slapping his hand against the truck's faded side. "So, first things first." He slid the ladder out of the truck. "We check the roof. And cross our fingers."

He made Sam help him set the ladder against the house wall. Dean clambered up the ladder and peered up at the roof. "We're in luck, I think. Looks to be in good shape. I'll check for missing shingles and around the gutters and the soffits for rot but I'm thinking we're okay here."

Sam just nodded. He had no damn idea what Dean was talking about. But…he was going to learn, whether he wanted to or not. He was pretty sure about that. Dean clambered up onto the roof and wave Sam off, so he headed to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water and sat by the open window, waiting for Dean to call him.

Not even an hour later Dean wandered into the kitchen and startled Sam out of a light doze. He bumped his head against the kitchen table and frowned when Dean snorted.

"Hey, Sleepin' Ugly. Thank goodness I didn't need you," he said but there was no heat behind it. In fact, he looked pleased—smiled at Sam before going on. "We're really damn lucky. Roof's good, no problems there. Some of the gutters have pulled out a bit, but not too bad. No damage to the eaves….got a look at the garage while I was up there—that roof does need work. After, we can clean it out and give Baby a nice place to park." He grinned at Sam. "No reason why she shouldn't have a place of her own, too."

Sam heaved himself up from the table and stretched. He walked as he nodded, barely listening to Dean. He pretty much always kind of mentally wandered as soon as he heard 'Baby'. He flicked the switch in the kitchen and they both startled as the lights came on. "Thank god," Sam said. "Civilization."

Dean snapped his fingers. "Awesome. Thank _you,_ Frank."

Suddenly there was a wheezing-chugging-clanging wall of noise coming from everywhere and Sam ducked, scrambled right under the kitchen table and pulled in his limbs like a startled spider. The noise rushed over him, flattened him under the shelter of the tabletop. He closed his eyes and rocked back and forth and felt his throat burn with the sound he was making but couldn't hear….

"Sam, _Sam,_ it’s just the heater coming on, that's all. That noise is, it’s real, it's _normal._ Okay?" Sam slowly realized that the rocking motion came from Dean's hand on his arm, and the noise had stopped…Sam laid his head on his knees and nodded, but didn’t move. Couldn't uncurl, couldn't come out from under table.

Dean's voice was soft, full of patient kindness when he spoke. "Dude, maybe when you were like, five I might have joined you down there, but not anymore. Come on out, kid. Have some lunch with me…please, Sam?"

Sam gave a weak little laugh. Dean always could hit just the right tone to break through any defenses Sam tried to build. "Yeah…wait a minute. I'll be out in a minute."

"Sure, Dean said," I'm gonna make some coffee and…make some coffee."

He did, quietly, while Sam's terror-tight muscles finally unclenched. It was mostly embarrassment that kept him under the table now. _Of course_ that noise had been the heater awakening. Of course it was noisy, having not been in use for years…he should have known that was all it was. 

A hand came in view, cup of coffee in it. "Here. And just so you know, I don’t care and you didn't make a fool of yourself. I'm actually kind of impressed you could fold all of yourself under that table like that."

"Shut the fuck up," Sam muttered, but managed a genuine smile when Dean just laughed. Sam felt gratitude, and wished hard, really hard, that Dean could be a little softer like this all the time. He sighed and took tiny sips of the boiling coffee and stared at all he could see of his brother—jean clad knees and calves, scruffy work boots, Dean's hand tapping against his knee. Sam thought what nice, sturdy, competent-looking hands his brother had. 

It took a full cup of coffee before Sam was sure he could stand without toppling over. He crawled out from under the table, clutching his empty cup like it was a security blanket. He kept his eyes on the floor, habit making him try and hide behind his bangs like he'd done when he was a teen. He waited for Dean to escalate the teasing now that he was vertical but Dean just took the cup and said, "You don’t need to do that anymore." 

Sam nodded. He was pretty sure he didn't, hoped he wouldn't. A tiny part of him almost didn't mind losing it from time to time because Dean looked at him kindly and not at all like he wanted to crack his brain open and see what it was that made Sam tick.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Dean insisted they check the pipes before they took showers, control freak that he was. Sam was damn relieved when Dean said he was satisfied they wouldn't have to break through walls any time soon. The thought of busting up drywall and then having to replace it just exhausted Sam. Fuck, he woke up tired, every day felt like he was trying to roll through a decades-old hangover….

So what they were dealing with were minor repairs, familiar things Sam could handle with his eyes closed and asleep on his feet. Stuff like the toilet that screamed like a possessed thing when they flushed it and then hissed for what seemed like hours. Or the trap under the bathroom sink that tore like tissue paper when they went to unscrew it. Really simple stuff, Dean said. _Stuff even a little brother could fix,_ Sam figured he wasn't saying out loud—the dick.

"We're pretty damn lucky this place is in good shape," Dean said. "It's a real break for us."

"Ah. Yeah." Sam got the sense that Dean knew just as well as he did it wasn't just luck that the house was in decent shape. Their dad's touch was here—obviously the man had done what he could to make certain they'd have some place to land when they were ready for it, whenever that day came. The understanding that their dad had expectations of a real future for them eased some of Sam's constant exhaustion. It was good to have concrete proof that Dad had _loved_ them, not just needed them or respected them as soldiers. On one level Sam had always known it but this…this proof all around them, was nice….

"Hey, you with me here?" Dean broke Sam's train of thought, snapping his clever fingers an inch before Sam's nose. Sam jerked back out of reach, not taking any chances—Dean was disgusting and not above shoving his fingers right up Sam's nose for a laugh. "You gonna help or just daydream about strippers—I mean sexy librarians?"

Sam fought a smile. Okay, so Dean could be disgusting and an enormous idiot but…sometimes he was kind of, _almost,_ cute. Like those hairless little dogs with the warts and the cock-eyed teeth. "Shut up. Those are your dreams, not mine."

"At least in _my_ dreams, the librarians are all under forty."

_"Dude."_

Dean finally shut up and Sam put his little plumbing knowledge to use with his brother hanging over his shoulder and being generally annoying. In the end, Dean didn't even bitch; he eyeballed Sam's work and nodded approvingly. Even though Sam knew switching out faucets and replacing float valves was no big deal, it made him feel pretty good. And when Dean smiled at him, pride in his eyes, warm hand squeezing his shoulder, it was better than pretty good.

***

"Hey, found some bed frames and some other stuff in the garage. Queen-size…almost big enough for you, Godzilla."

"Shut up. Mattresses, too?"

"Nah. We gotta get those. And a couch or some chairs. Furniture." Dean got that look that meant he was thinking, and that usually meant Sam wasn't going to like where it ended up. 

Dean showed Sam the furniture he'd pulled out of the corners they'd been shoved into. Another set of kitchen chairs to match the two that had been left, along with the table, in their kitchen, some mismatched lamps, and a couple of small dressers. A few odd side-tables and a big empty trunk. Dean thought it might make a good coffee table and Sam agreed. They dragged everything usable into the house and set the bed frames and dressers up in each bedroom. Sam had also taken—in a fit of pointless hope or a desire to please Dean, he wasn't sure which—a small bookcase up into the room he'd claimed as his. It was stupid; they'd hardly be there long enough to collect books. Though that box of books they lugged around in the trunk, some reference books and some old journals…it'd do them good to get out of the car and into a dry, safe place. 

When they brought home a set of mattresses and made up the beds, Sam admitted there was something in him that warmed at the sight of a bed all 'his'. Then there was the look on Dean's face as he smoothed the brand new covers down over Sam's bed. His eyes were warm, there was a little half smile curling his mouth…he looked satisfied. Almost content. Sam shook his head. Dean was never, ever not going to be his big brother.

***

Morning came all too soon; Sam woke up with the unfamiliar feeling of having slept the whole night through. His bones thanked him for sleeping in a real bed instead of that musty-with-age sleeping bag rolled out on the unforgiving floor—it was nice not to have to drag himself upright. He thought about the last time he'd slept without having dreams that brought him awake to cold sweat and hands twisted into painfully tight fists. Couldn't remember when that was actually…today he woke with no idea what he'd dreamt at all and that was _good_ as far as Sam was concerned.

When he went down to the kitchen, Dean was already there with a cup of coffee for Sam and a to-do list apparently burning a hole in his pocket. He rushed them through a sketchy breakfast to get to what Dean called "the main event." Sam thought later that if he'd had any sense at all, he'd have run right then. 

The better part of an afternoon was devoted to stripping wallpaper and it was all the fun Sam expected it wasn't going to be. In a choice between stripping walls and hunting pookas, Sam was hard pressed to decide which would be the worse. He was sweating and itchy from dried glue and wall cleaner. Dean helpfully supplied that this was just the beginning and Sam let him know just how happy he was about that with a single finger wave. He managed to hold in a smile when Dean let loose with that weird warble-cackle meant to be a laugh.

As the day progressed, they hauled out at least a dozen bag of shredded, wet paper, scrubbed the walls down after. They'd stripped down to just jeans because even though it was still early spring, the work was hot and wet and sloppy. 

As they worked, Sam found himself repeatedly glancing at Dean. He was surprised—Dean was in much better shape than he'd imagined. Wolfing down all those burgers and pizza and _pie,_ for god's sake don’t forget the pie, not to mention the beers…he'd thought for sure those layers of shirts were hiding some pudge, but no…not that Dean was anywhere near as cut as Sam. Sam had no false modesty where his body was concerned. He knew what he looked like. But here was Dean, looking damn good himself. Muscled but sleek, smooth and nearly hairless. Sam found that fascinating, how Dean was, he was so…so _smooth._ Muscle bunched and rolled as he moved. Like…water under silk.

Odd that he'd never really noticed before how wide Dean's shoulders were, how thick his arms were. Oh, he knew Dean was strong—he'd felt it often enough. He still couldn't take Dean down and keep him down when they were sparring—or hadn't the last time they'd actually sparred for shits and grins…when _was_ the last time that happened? Sam sighed. So long ago, he could barely remember.

Sam dropped another load of goopy paper shreds in a bag. He straightened, leaned backwards to work the cramps out before heading back to his side of the kitchen. Found his eyes drifting towards Dean as he did. It was kind of hypnotic, watching him work, and Sam kind of spaced a few times, lulled by the movement. Dean stood on tiptoes to yank a piece down above his head, and muscles along his ribs rolled, his biceps swelled as they worked....

A slithery touch of warmth sunk into Sam's belly, settling low; he was brought up short by a sudden flood of memories, summer in other places scattered across the States. Hot, humid places that they steamed and sweat in all season long. Sam remembered being a kid and spending summer looking at Dean. Looking _up_ to Dean, not at him. 

He swallowed—hard. It hurt when he did. Dean turned as if he'd heard the effort it took for Sam to swallow. "What, I got something?" he asked when Sam didn't manage to shift his gaze away fast enough. 

"Uh, yeah, you got some paper stuck to your back—nope, there it went."

"Oh," Dean said, uninterested, and went back to work. Sam threw himself into the business of ridding the walls of paper, using the same amount of vicious concentration that he'd use dismembering a rugaru. Sam wondered…was this weird internal shift of perspective, this mounting fascination with whatever his brother was doing, something to do with Lucifer whisking his brain like broken yolks?

 

By the time night rolled around, they'd not only stripped all the vintage eighties wallpaper but managed to get the other rooms cleaned as well, walls all primed and ready for paint. Dean claimed that painting would be the fun part but Sam was pretty sure his brother was lying again. They sat in the kitchen, ate grilled cheese sandwiches while they looked at paint chips—or Dean forced Sam to look. Sam had a vague feeling of their roles being reversed but he kept that to himself. He listened to Dean trying to decide between a matte finish and an eggshell finish—totally interesting only to Dean because Sam could give a flying fuck. 

He drank a beer as he stared at their reflections in the kitchen window. He watched Dean flipping through chips, lips pursed in thought…felt uncomfortable when Dean licked a wet stripe along his full bow of his lower lip. 

Sometimes, Sam almost missed the deafening noise in his head….

***

"Okay, we're got tarpaper, shingles, roofing nails—and this!" Dean held a nail gun up with a big grin on his face. "This is gonna be awesome. I'm telling ya, Sammy, you're gonna love working with this."

Sam blinked and fought a yawn that not even mainlining twenty ounces of high-test coffee could stop. As far as Sam could tell, the thing shot nails and how it was awesome was beyond him but for the first time in what felt like eons Dean called him Sammy, unselfconsciously, without a twitch or hesitation. Without a drop of sarcasm or stifled hurt. Nothing but pleased satisfaction softening the angles of his face. Sam wanted to see Dean looking like that more often… _relaxed._ He'd almost forgotten what that looked like on Dean anymore. He hardly remembered what it looked like on himself.

***

Stacks of shingles, a roll of underlayment and a couple of sheets of plywood sat in neatly ordered bundles on the marginally cleaner garage floor. Sam huffed, and stretched to unkink his back. His lazy-ass fuck of a brother had just basically shoveled everything off the back of the truck onto the garage floor. And no surprise that it was up to Sam to organize the crap. Again. He had a flash of the Impala's trunk when he'd had to take care of it, everything neatly placed in its precise foam cradle, and the way Dean maintained it: haphazard boxes full of this and that, guns stacked on each other, knives tossed here and there, boxes of charms and bags of salt and old hex bags oozing their contents all over everything like….

The garage door creaked, and Dean came strutting in—came to a dead stop at the sight of neatly stacked supplies, new buckets of nails and screws sat on a bench along one wall, and tools hanging from hooks Sam had driven into the studs—including Dean's new toy, the nail gun. He looked around the garage, squinted at Sam and nodded. "You do a real good job of getting shit organized. Must be the housewife in you. Now grab the ladder, bitch—we're climbing up top."

Sam rolled his eyes, but did grab the ladder, manhandling it out the doors and to the side of the garage. Dean strolled behind, sucking at a cup of coffee and humming something that no doubt was older than he was. Sam grumbled and bitched and complained about his musical taste. Not like Dean ever needed to know that sometimes, when Dean was…when he was gone, Sam had driven around with the stupid music his brother loved blaring loud enough to make ears bleed, with the windows rolled up so Sam could scream if he had to—

"Whatever you're thinking about, forget it. Just think about the job." Dean's voice in his ear was so soft and so kind that at first Sam thought it was one of those goddamn waking hallucinations he used to have, right before Lucifer would rip a new hole in him…Sam blinked, and leaned the ladder against the garage wall. 

"Did you hear me Sam?" 

"Oh. Yeah, I heard you, I'm not…I'm thinking about the, the job, that's all." He blinked again and ignored the way his ear still felt warm from Dean's breath, it was a struggle to keep his fingers from his ear. 

"Yeah, okay. So." Dean moved him out the way, and shifted and shoved the ladder until he declared it stable. "Let's go."

***

The breeze pulled strands of Sam's hair across his forehead his cheeks…the breeze felt good; it lifted the hem of his stretched-out t-shirt a bit. He shuddered at the sudden stroke of cool against his over-warm, sweat-damp skin. Sam shuddered again when Dean raised a bottle to his mouth and took a long deep drink. His Adam's apple rolled with his swallowing and there Sam went again with the damn staring. Dean caught him from the corner of his eye and cocked an eyebrow at him and what could Sam say? He just shrugged— _nothing, and everything, I'm fine_ and Dean gave a little nod.

They were halfway through the job. Sam was impressed by the way Dean worked with a single-minded intensity that he'd only seen in his brother at the tail end of a hunt. He was focused, he was quick, steady…still managed to keep an eye on Sam while he worked. Like Sam couldn't feel it when Dean looked at him. 

Between the two of them working like machines, the old shingles and underlayment were ripped up, damaged board torn off and new board nailed in place. New shingles marched across the roof, still looking bright in the now darkening daylight. Dean tossed Sam a bottle of Gatorade, and the both of them stopped to take a desperately needed break. They sat with their legs hanging over the edge of the roof, bodies angled to catch the breeze. The sun was just starting to set and the sky was at that point where it was still light but ready to tip over into deep evening. 

Sam closed his eyes and thought of Cas, and wondered what he was doing right now. He hoped he was watching the sunset. Promised himself he'd remember to check on him in the morning. Though getting pure, unembroidered info from Meg was like pulling teeth…Sam frowned and ran his tongue over his own teeth, and ignored the phantom taste of copper in his mouth. He finished off the last gulp of Gatorade and tossed the empty bottle to the ground, watched it roll to a stop in the thick grass. Stretched—and it felt like every disc of his spine popped. He pulled his shirt back behind his shoulders, scraped damp hair off his face. The light breeze slid intimately over Sam's bare skin—his nipples hardened at the touch and an involuntary chill swept him. Sam jerked when Dean suddenly started coughing, breaking him out of his daze. He reached out to Dean but Dean waved him off.

"Nah, nah, I'm okay—Gatorade went down the wrong pipe, s'all." Dean screwed the heel of one hand against his streaming eyes. "Damn…call it a night?" he asked, voice husky with coughing. "If I don't get a shower soon, I'm gonna choke to death on my own stink."

Sam just nodded, not sure what might come out of his mouth and so felt it better not to take a chance.

***

"You did a good job today, Sam," Dean said, toweling his hair dry. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired like we just came off an all-night stakeout. Thirsty. Hungry. And I'm hot. And a little burned, I think—that's never happened before. Look, 'm peeling," he muttered, picking at his shoulders but he looked up and grinned at Dean's worried look. "The roof looks fucking awesome and I feel better than I have in a long time, dude."

Dean rubbed at the red blotch across his nose and cheeks and nodded. "Right?" Dean shot him a grin full of teeth, wide and unreserved and it was— _Dean was—_ how was Dean so damn—the only word that came to Sam was _beautiful_ and he wanted to stab himself for thinking so. One—it was his asshole _brother_ he was getting all soppy over, and two, he was a mountain of tired clichés.

***

**  
_Dean_   
**  
Dean eased open Sam's bedroom door, a thin strip of light falling across his brother's face. He looked good. Sam was actually sleeping, not shuddering and moaning and gasping for breath, no jerking limbs and tears trickling out of eyes squeezed shut…Dean took a shallow breath and let it go. Sam was better now. Thanks to Cas. Dean shook his head. Cas. Crazy motherfucker, but Dean would take his sacrifice again and again to save his brother.

He leaned back against the door and took in the incredible sight of his brother sleeping sounder than Dean remembered him doing since…shit, since high school, maybe earlier. Sam shifted, smacked his lips and smiled in his sleep and Dean couldn't help smiling too. 

"It feels good to see you like this, Sammy. It's good to have you back…I love you, little brother," Dean murmured, his hand unconsciously stroking the doorjamb.  
Sam sighed, moved again, like he was swimming underwater. His eyes blinked slowly open and seemed to focus on Dean and Dean froze—horrified to be caught making googly eyes at his sleeping brother, but Sam just smiled sweetly and his lashes fell again.

Dean's heart melted. Worse, his eyes went wet and he had to squeeze them shut. Like his Sammy, little chubby, ten year old Sammy—for a golden minute, that's what his brother had looked like. Dean backed out of Sam's room, leaned against the wall outside his door. Closed his eyes and sort of prayed, "For fuck's sake…please cut that kid a break. He's done every fucking thing he's ever been asked to, he's paid for any fucking mistake he might have made. He's my brother and he's a good fucking man, damn it." 

He rubbed a knuckle at the slightly painful twist between his eyes and headed off to his room. As prayers go, it probably wasn't the most correct, but it was what he was feeling right now.

He washed up and went to bed and dreamed that he and Sam almost set a field on fire and ran, laughing and falling into each other. Right before they ran into a tiny house, Sam hugged Dean hard enough to make his ribs creak and said, "Because I love you, that's why."


	4. Chapter 4

**PORCH**

  
The next few days swept by in a tangle of rehabbing, shopping for rehabbing stuff, hitting up thrift stores and checking in with Frank—not too often because he got pissed off at what he considered unnecessary contact. Besides, he made Dean uneasy.

Dean propped a hip against the sink counter and stared out into the back yard. The sun was coming up over the wilderness that was supposed to be their backyard. It glinted off the metal roofs of the little mystery sheds; made the barn-red they'd painted the garage glow. It pleased him to know that his car was parked out of the elements, that she had a place of her own, too. Fuck, she deserved it, just as much as him and Sam. 

Sunlight poured in through the window, he blinked contentedly in the growing gold glow—he could feel spring was about to become summer, each morning was warmer and brighter than the next. It felt damn good to have the time to notice something like that. Upstairs he heard Sam waking up, the floors creaking with his weight. Dean smirked, loaded the coffeepot and stuck a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster. He'd let Sam choose what else they'd have—he was in a good mood today.

Twenty minutes and a cup of coffee later, Sam finally made his way into the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway, pulling his fingers through wet hair, blinking owlishly. "Hey."

"Hey. Ready to work on the porch today?"

Sam peered around the kitchen with a blank expression. Dean knew what he was looking at—the bare walls waiting for paint, a new coffee pot sitting on a clean counter, clean new blinds at the windows. Hell, Dean was still amazed by the whole thing whenever he stopped scrubbing and scraping and patching to think about it. Place wasn't pretty yet by any means but it was _clean._ The house was clean and warm and their dad had bought it—for _them._ He'd actually imagined a life for them beyond hunting. Fucking amazing. 

Sam smiled at Dean before breaking into a deep, phlegmy cough. "Man…." He rubbed his chest and peered at Dean with huge, swimmy eyes and Dean snorted. 

"No way, Sammy. You're not getting out of this." He laughed at the way Sam's face instantly morphed from kicked puppy to uptight maiden aunt—tight lips and flaring nostrils—and plopped a tea bag in a mug. "Tea an' honey's good for everything. Plus, there's cough syrup in the first aid kit and it's not even expired. You'll be fine."

***

Afternoon sun made sweat run down his sides, tickle the back of his neck and soak the waistband of his boxers. There was a breeze but it wasn't doing much to cool things down, it blew the sawdust the sander threw up to cling to his wet skin. He sat back on his heels and blew a sharp breath, clearing his lungs. He glanced to the side where Sam was kind of slumped over a step, drawing the palm sander he held slowly over the wood in sloppy circles.

"Hey—you keep that up and you'll leave divots in the wood!"

Sam looked up at him with bleary eyes, his mouth a little open. He sniffed hard and gross and said, "Hunh?"

"Dude, gimme." He took the sander out of Sam's feebly protesting grip and pressed his hand to Sam's slick forehead. He grimaced and yanked his hand away, wiping it on his thigh and ignoring Sam's injured little grunt. "Fuck dude, you're burning up—and sweating like a pig. Why didn't you say something?"

"You said I'd be fine. You said I _had_ to work." Sam's voice was muffled and teetering on the edge of a whine. He sounded like a snot-filled nine year old. 

"What, _now_ you choose to listen to me?" Dean rolled his eyes but rubbed the back of Sam's neck, soft and careful and Sam sighed like he'd just gotten the best massage ever. Giant doofball. "C'mon, get up, you." He pulled Sam to his feet, mildly concerned that Sam rose without protest and let Dean lead him upstairs.

"Strip," he commanded and Sam laughed, high and giggly. 

"Striiiiippp," he warbled, flailed at Dean when he tried to help. "Stop Dean, m'stripping." He giggled again and gave Dean a look that verged on a blurry leer. "Wamme dance, too?"

"Oh, shut the ever-loving' fuck up," Dean muttered. For some reason, he felt uncomfortable heat flood his face and neck. "C'mere." He manhandled Sam just like he used to when Sam was a kid—yanking his shirts over his head, pulling socks and shoes off and avoiding Sam's flailing hands as he yanked jeans down.

"Don't, Dean, don't," he whined. "I'm cold, you dick." 

"Yeah, yeah, shut up and lay down. Jesus." He got Sam into bed and under the covers and flinched hard when he realized Sam was crying. Fat tears spilled over Sam's fever-reddened cheeks, wetting the pillow under his head. Sam refused to look at him, his fists threatening to rip the sheet, he gripped it so hard. 

"Don’t leave me, please," Sam mumbled. "I'll be better, I promise, I'll stop the, the, you know, and the looking and, and…" his voice wound down to a whisper and Dean had to lean over to hear his brother. "I'll do it. I can stop thinking about you…"

Dean bit his lip. Well, yeah, he knew Sam was looking forward to a day he didn't have to think about Dean, just worry about himself. It didn't hurt that Sam confirmed what Dean had always known; it just made him feel sorry for his little brother, god---the poor kid's massive lack of breaks. Hell, he was sorta proud of Sam, that he could still imagine a future for himself. He desperately wanted Sam to believe in it—in whatever way Sam wanted. He petted Sam's huge, sweaty, messy head. "I know, dude, I know. We're going to fix you up, okay, I'll take care of you, you giant ball of snot. You just relax and let me fix it."

Sam snuffled a liquid clogged laugh. "Gian' balla snah, yeb…" he said—at least Dean was pretty sure that was what he'd said. He smiled down at Sam, rubbing his thumb in soft circles against his brother's temple until he drifted into sleep. 

Dean sat at Sam's bedside for a long while after Sam drifted off, just listening to the breath whistling in and out of Sam's open mouth, watching the wet patch on the pillow slip grow…he contemplated grabbing his phone to take a picture, but in the end just sat there and pushed damp hair off his brother's forehead.

 

That evening, he brought Sam a cup of clear soup and a few crackers, managed to get Sam upright after he'd settled the tray on his bedside table. "Lemme see," he said and shoved a thermometer in Sam's mouth. A few seconds later the thermometer beeped and Dean eased it out, snickering when Sam tried to follow it confusedly. "Yup, it's not too bad but you've got a fever for sure…have a little soup and I'll grab the cold meds, okay?"

Sam nodded, his face patchy red, wet hair clinging to his cheeks, veins standing high on his hands as they wrapped around the cup. He drank when Dean insisted, made a face at the instant soup. "Nasty," he mumbled but drank anyway, like Dean knew he would. Childhood lessons were deep in their bones and you just didn't waste edible stuff unless you were horking up a lung or maybe bleeding out…Dean shrugged the thought off and went to get Sam some relief. 

As he passed through the living room and looked out onto the porch he saw that they'd made more progress than he'd thought. The rough, alligatored paint was almost completely off the old boards—they matched the clean, new boards he'd used to patch rotten spots. When Sam was up to it again, they'd make that porch rock. They'd have the best damn porch on the street. Dean grinned. Hell yeah. Him and Sam—best damn team ever.

***

"Hey, Sammy, when we get back to real life, we should totally do the rehabbing on the side, like those dorky Property Brothers, only sexier…Sam?" Dean's heart sank when he nudged the bedroom door open wide…Sam was quietly, emphatically, talking to someone not in the room. That wasn't supposed to happen. Cas was supposed to have fixed that damn hell-tripping…he felt a short, painfully sharp stab of guilt that he crushed down. Fuck that. Cas owed Sam that. He _owed_ him.

A deep, shuddering gasp brought Dean back to the here and now.

Sam was moving in the bed, slow, swimming motions hampered by the sheets, the blanket. He was pale, but his cheeks and the tip of his nose burned red. His eyes were so glassy they didn’t look real and his hand shook and plucked at the edge of the blanket. Dean cursed quietly and dropped the medicine on the table next to Sam's empty cup. He went to the bathroom and returned with a wet washrag, so cold it made his fingers ache. Laid it on Sam's forehead and guiltily ignored his groan of discomfort. Dean leaned over, his ear close to Sam's mouth. His cheek brushing Sam's was coincidence, pure coincidence. He strained to hear what Sam was saying. His voice had dropped to a rough, hoarse whisper.

"Gonna hate me…" Sam's voice caught and he breathed out a sob. "I'm scared…don't understand what's…" Sam jerked under the weight of Dean's hand, and Dean took the washrag back, turned it inside out and laid it down again. Sam looked in Dean's general direction and Dean knew that Sam was talking to a Dean only he could see. "I don't. What's wrong with me? Why am I like this?"

"You're fine, little brother, it's no big deal. Got a lousy cold and a little fever but in the morning you'll be fine, promise you…"

Sam went on as if Dean hadn't spoken. "Stop it," he murmured. "Don' say that. Dean cares, he does. You're a liar—you lie about lying, you dick…" his voice wavered into silence and Dean sat at his side and ignored the tears wetting Sam's cheeks. Sam had had a hard, hard time…his brother was a hero, Dean thought. A survivor. A victor. And only he knew it.

**_Sam_**  
Strawberry jam, toast…tea. That was what Sam smelled when his eyes eased open. He blinked. His eyelashes felt gummy, the inside of his mouth felt thick and tacky…he inhaled and was swamped by less pleasant smells. Armpit, greasy hair, sweat…his smacked his sticky lips together. It was quiet in the room and a little too warm, but that was probably just him. He shoved the slightly damp sheet and blanket down with a grimace. Sick. He hated getting sick. He felt the phantom press of a hand on his shoulder…he was sure Dean had been camped at his bedside most of the night, probably keeping the hair off his face. He hated the gross way his hair stuck to his face when he was sick and Dean knew it, made sure, if he could, to keep it back. Sam smiled. Until an errant thought wiped that smile away. 

Bits and pieces of the night before came sneaking back and fuck—he was pretty sure he'd made a giant-ass fool of himself, had tripped all over these terrible, confusing thoughts he was growing to fill the holes left in the Swiss cheese his brain was now. He remembered arguing with someone, someone who made his heart beat with sick, hopeless fear. It wasn't real. Now that the fever wasn't clouding his mind, he knew that it hadn't been real, not really there, not a real hallucination, if that made any sense…and he'd been arguing over whether Dean loved him and whether Sam deserved that love if he did….oh my god, he'd been a gigantic, _flaming_ ass.

Before he could panic any more, the door opened and Dean was looking at him, pleasant surprise making his eyes glow. Sam blinked and swallowed, unable to speak for a moment but Dean filled the silence for him. "Jesus, you stink. And your hair is standing on end. Did you wash your hair in olive oil when I wasn't looking? Do us both a favor and get your ginormous stankin' ass in the shower."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the jerk standing in his bedroom doorway and questioned his own sanity. This thing that was sneaking around in his head, this…this… _crush…_ was a sure indication that he was nuts because his brother was an asshole. 

"C'mon, Sammy, all BS aside, it'll make you feel better. I'll help." Dean's voice was soft and sincere, just like his eyes and Sam felt himself melting inside—but just a little. Maybe Dean wasn't a complete and total asshole. Maybe.

***

The porch looked great. They'd decided on painting the boards a slate grey and the posts a cream color and it hadn't even come to blows. Much. Sam rubbed at a tiny paper cut in the center of his forehead. Dean managed to get a really mean spin on those paint chips…Dean caught him looking and grinned. His feet were up on the porch rail, his hands folded over his stomach—the very picture of settled and content.

Sam wished it was true.

"Sam. Stop wandering around the back forty and sit up here with me—in our _outdoor_ chairs," he said, in a tone of voice that reminded Sam of Cas and his newly-discovered 'air quotes'. Sam was caught between frowning and laughing, so he settled for flipping Dean off. When Dean'd tried to drag that fucking disgusting gold-colored recliner he'd found "can you believe it Sam, sitting right on the curb" onto the porch, Sam thought he was going to blow a gasket. If they had to pretend to be normal, than he wanted to be the kind of normal that didn't drag living room furniture into the front yard to drink beer and watch life go by.

He had to admit it was nice to sit on their porch, still smelling of fresh paint and raw wood, in their brand new sparkling-white plastic chairs and drink ice-cold beers. The sun was just starting to think about setting, stars beginning to glimmer high in the sky. A kid walked down their street side by side with a giant hairy mutt. Dean side-eyed it with a stunning lack of enthusiasm. It hurt Sam's heart…Dean used to be a dog guy. Maybe not as much as Sam but still. It made Sam's insides do unpleasant twists and turns when Dean tried to be subtle about avoiding contact with dogs.

The kid with the dog flicked a little wave at them, and continued on up the street, towards where it ended in a ring of houses. They watched the kid until he was met by an adult he obviously knew, and then the both of them mentally stood down. Sam shook his head. 

Dean shrugged. "The saving people gig is hard to let go of."

Sam stopped and set his beer on the porch floor. "Is that what we're doing? Letting go of saving people, hunting things?"

"No—" Dean snapped. "Shit, Sam, no. I just. Fuck, I just want to draw a breath, that's all. We'll get back to it—how could we not?"

Sam nodded. He picked up the bottle again and rolled it between his fingers. He nodded again, tilted the bottle back and sipped quietly at his beer while he and his brother watched the sun sink….

After a while, Sam admitted, out loud and not all together reluctantly, that it was nice to have a comfortable spot to sit and drink beer. The way Dean smiled at him felt like getting two thousand soccer trophies and his weight in gold.


	5. Chapter 5

In the days after winning the War of the Porch Furniture, Sam had offered other suggestions to make the porch more comfortable. Dean called it being a giant prissy, bossy, HGTV Nazi, but that was just because Dean was an asshole.

Which was why Sam was currently elbow deep in dirt, some shrubs sitting in pots on the grass just waiting for their final…Sam's eyes narrowed with his frown. Well, 'resting place' didn't sound exactly cheerful. He dug a few more holes on either side of the porch stairs, quickly and efficiently. He snorted quietly to himself. Who knew that skills learned hunting would actually be useful in the normal world?

He dropped a trio of forsythias on either side of the porch steps. The guy at the home center that Dean treated like his version of church assured him that the twiggy little bushes would grow up and out and make a heck of a display in spring. "Oh yeah," the guy had said. "They'll spread all right." 

Sam eyed the little twigs sitting in their holes and looking innocent….

***

He walked back to the shed and as he passed the garage housing Baby, heard a whimper. He double-taked hard, his heart pounding. A sharp pain lanced through his chest and he swallowed suddenly thick saliva….

Not the—the car—of _course_ the whimper hadn't come from the car. That was insane. Sam wiped cold sweat from his upper lip. Just. Not happening. His heart skipped a beat with the sharp, painful blast of worry that staggered him. He could _not_ be side-slipping through reality again, he _couldn't—_ when the whimper came again, louder, he rubbed the heel of his hand over his sternum, pressed down hard. Turned towards the sound. It came again, and he followed it gingerly towards the open garage doors. The closer he came the more convinced he was that the sound was real and it was coming from behind the car.

Sam stopped. The sound was definitely real and it was coming from a dog—about knee-high to Sam but the size of his paws meant it was still a puppy—whining and cowering in the dark. Dirty, scrawny, shyness forcing its head down but the way its eyes rolled up at Sam told him the pup wanted to come to him, wanted to be petted. He knelt and held his hand out, low to the ground, and waited. After a while, the dog sidled closer. It was light brown, built like a German shepherd, but more than likely a mix of a dozen different breeds. A male pup with huge feet and sad eyes.

"Hey, dog. Hey little boy, I won't hurt you. C'mere, there you go…" Sam felt a major sense of triumph when the dog not only came, but allowed Sam to rub his hands all over him. His heart beat rabbit-fast against Sam's fingers; he could feel it through slatty ribs that worked like bellows. Sam rubbed a calming hand over him, feeling crumbs of dirt ground into pup's fur, and kind of came undone at the way the scrawny thing tried to burrow his head under Sam's arm. "You're good, now. We got you. You're safe."

 

Dean shouted, he yelled and stomped and slammed things. But at the end of the day, Sam owned a dog, even though Dean gave Sam his own version of puppy eyes and said gently, "We're not staying here, you know that. The way we live—what kind of life is that for a dog, living in the backseat of a car? How are we supposed to take care of him? Sam…"

Dean's eyes had that sheen, the signal that he was feeling things that he didn't want to—feeling like Sam was about to fall and Dean wouldn't be able to catch him when he did. He ended by throwing his hands up and walking away from him. "I'm _not_ holding you while you cry when we have to give him up, you hear me?"

Sam went all warm with the victory and the smallest little shiver snaked up his spine. He stood there with his arms full of dirty, skinny dog and thought of Dean holding him, strong arms locked around him and pulling him close. Thought about the way Dean always snaked a hand into Sam's hair to pull him closer those rare, rare times Dean hugged him and how _safe_ he felt whenever he did that…Sam yanked his thoughts into a more productive direction. Concentrated on the little dog that needed a name instead.

**_Dean_**  
The shrubs around the porch steps were looking pretty good, painful as it was to admit. Dean shook his head. When the kid was right, he was right. The bushes were supposed to be no-maintenance. Sam claimed they'd grow on happily whether anyone lived in the house or not and that made Dean feel a lot better about them.

He dragged the hose from the side of the house to the front and washed dirt off the sidewalk and lower step. He was showering sticky soil off the shovel and getting ready to yell for Sam when an incredibly hot chick came strolling up the walk. She was a looker—miles of leg showcased in a pair of skin-tight, creamsicle-colored shorts that made his mouth water. He managed to pull his attention off perky tits and force his focus onto her eyes. They twinkled, like she knew it was an effort for him to keep his eyes on hers and appreciated it. He grinned—the full wattage. Her cheeks went a warm pink and he felt a swell of satisfaction. Nice to know even on the wrong side of thirty, he still had it. 

She made a sideways kind of skip and that was when Dean finally noticed the grizzly bear she had on a leash. He blinked, took a step back, his eyes locked on the grizzly now. The chick waved at him like she didn't have a monster on a leash and said, "Hi, hello! Heard from Buddy—my nephew—that some great, big, old guys had this house open—sorry about that, Bud's pretty sure anyone older than twelve is _old—_ anyway, welcome! It's great that someone's in this house, it's such a cool little house—Craftsmen style, you can tell by the way the porch, ha, but that's not—oh! We live down the way some—" She turned and flapped her hand at the cul-de-sac thing at the end of the road.

"The big white one down the road, that's ours—well, my brother's, anyway. It's him and his wife and kid, and me. Across from us, it’s George and Minnie and Ford and Donnie, we're pretty sure they're a couple but you know—" 

Dean was pretty sure he didn't but just nodded as the river of words kept on flowing. 

"And let's see, Margie and her kids and husband Frank. Down that way," she turned and pointed up the road that headed into town, "There's Herman, he's retired, lives alone, and then there's Ralph and Sara. And that's good old Panda," she said, pointing at the grizzly-slash-dog, shedding and slobbering on the driveway. 

"He's friendly. He gets along with people, people's dogs…people's garbage, but we're working on that, right boy?" Panda slobbered some more and farted and Dean had to admit maybe Panda was less a grizzly, more a slobbery, mobile hay-stack. "He's just a big ol' baby, yes he is," she nattered, in that special tone people reserved for babies and animals. 

Panda stopped and beamed at her before lumbering away from her side and attacking Dean with tongue and snout. Dean shifted out of tongue range. "Yeah, I can see that, big, ol' baby." He wiped his dripping hand off on his thigh before holding it out to the girl. Her fingers were warm and felt tiny in his. "I'm Dean," he said, "living here with, ah, my, my business partner, Sam." Dean blinked. He had no idea where the hell _business partner_ came from. It kind of tangled up on his tongue. He widened his grin, slipped some of what Sam called 'that stupid bedroom voice' into his tone. What did Sam know, he was a jealous bitch. "And you're?"

"Oh!" She smacked herself on the forehead and winced. "I'm Shel—Shelly, Shelly Miner. With all the babbling I do, I can't believe I didn't blurt my name."

Dean laughed. "Hmm. That's fine. Nice name." He invited Shel up on the porch and flipped the lid of the Coleman up, offered her a beer. She leapt up the ladder of his expectations when she grinned and said "Hell yeah, it's a burner out here." They sat back in the silly plastic chairs under the shade of his 'Craftsmans' porch, whatever that was. It was a nice afternoon, perfect weather, great for kicking back and enjoying the view, so that's what Dean did—enjoyed the view. Hellova rack, he thought, but he kept that to himself. He'd compare notes with Sam later. Speaking of. 

"Hold on a minute, Shel." He walked to the porch rail and hung over. "Sam," he shouted. "Visitors!"

Sam came around the corner, face fixed in not quite a smile, but no one who didn't knew him would get that that grimace wasn't Sam's usual smile. Fidu loped along behind him, big puppy paws working a mile a minute, all big-eyes and doggy grin. Dean had to admit the mutt was cute, especially compared to 'mountain of hair and slobber' or whatever the Shel's dog's name was. Fidu came to a dead stop at the sight of strangers—so did Sam. Dean waved him up. "Grab a beer and meet one of our neighbors."

Sam gave Dean a slightly distrustful look and Dean tried to project 'it's okay, Sammy' with his eyes. Sam sighed, and mustered up a slightly warmer smile. It got just a bit warmer when Panda shoved his big, slobbery head into Sam's hand, nudging until Sam rubbed him around his ears and worked strong fingers through his ruff. Dean watched Fidu and Panda get to know one another and watched Sam tentatively get to know Shel. Dean sipped and speculated. Should he step back, let Sam take a shot at Shel? Would it help Sam? She seemed normal, nice…he shook himself and tuned back into the conversation. 

"I'm Shel—Shelly, Shelly Miner." Dean heard. Shel tapped her bottle against Sam's and smiled. "I'm staying with my brother and his family for a bit. Well," she laughed, "it's been longer than a bit now…long story, blah, boring." 

She grinned wide and Dean grinned with her and Sam took a really long, long drink before setting the bottle down. "Well. Nice to have met you, Shelly, but it's past time I got this garden-gunk washed off. See you two later. "

Dean watched Sam walk into the house and managed to keep his surprise from showing. Sam hadn't been…rude, exactly, but…Dean cast a look over to Shel and shrugged. "My partner, he's been through…we both have…" his words trailed off while he tried to think of—of something to say but Shelly, like most people, filled in the blanks on her own. 

"Oh! You served together? Ah! Well, don’t worry; we're not a nosey bunch out here. But, if Sam ever wants to talk about it, there's a group in town, vets. It might help…if you're interested."

"Ah…yeah, thanks," Dean said. "I'm sure Sam will appreciate it."

She stood and called panda over. "Gotta go, Dean. It's getting late and Dan'll be looking for me. Like I don’t have this ferocious killer dog here. Brothers," she muttered and rolled her eyes and Dean smiled. 

"I'll walk you if you like…"

She stopped and looked him up and down, a slow smile spreading over his face. "Okay. Yeah, I'd like that."

**_Sam_**  
Sam went up to the bathroom. Hot water and a long shower would be great—sitting around in his own stink got old pretty fucking fast. When he came back downstairs, rubbing water out of his hair with an heirloom hotel towel that was tissue thin, Dean was sitting at the table, making notes. "Hey. There's some new towels an' washcloths in that closet in the hallway," he said. "I shoved some sheets in there too." He looked up at Sam. "Remind me to check if that washer on the back porch works…what?"

"What are you doing here?" Sam dropped the towel, eyes locked on Dean. Dean, who was in the kitchen, alone.

"Unh…I live here?"

"What about—?" Sam twitched his hand and tilted his head a fraction towards the door and Dean's face screwed up tight, the slight smile melting away into a definite frown.

"Come on dude, not like I met her in a bar, for god's sake. 'Sides, she's practically a kid, you perv."

Sam was about to point out that the 'kid' was well into her twenties, and since when did Dean even worry about that kind of thing, let alone turn down the invitation that Sam had so clearly seen in her open expression—when he remembered he hadn't been particularly thrilled with the idea…"Well. Whatever. I'm tired."

"Me too." Dean stood and stretched luxuriously, hands grazing the lamp hanging over the little table. He grinned at Sam and Sam looked down at the towel he was strangling in his hands. Dean tossed the pen onto the tablet he'd been scribbling in. "We got a lot done today, a lot. You worked your ass off, Sam. We deserve to take a break tomorrow, dude. So. Bedtime?" 

"Yeah. Good-night, Dean."

They walked up the stairs together and went to their separate bedrooms.


	6. Chapter 6

**KITCHEN**

**_Sam_**  
"Fuckin' mosquitoes…so, look at this. Whatya think of this as the next project?" Dean flapped the thick magazine through the air before spreading it wide across his knees. He glared at Sam and waved him closer. Sam huffed. He'd come out to the porch to have a quiet beer and relax for a few minutes, not indulge Dean in his Mike Holmes fantasies. Shit, they'd only had a bare two weeks downtime since they'd finished up the porch….

Dean fixed him with an icy stare. Sam sighed and dragged his chair an inch closer to Dean—unfortunately within Dean's reach—he grabbed the arm of Sam's chair and yanked him closer. 

"Dude!" Sam set his beer down on the tiny glass-top patio table. He stared at the barely useful thing in bemusement. They were now Winchesters who owned patio furniture. He wasn't sure just how fucked up that was. 

"Come on, Sammy, look at this," Dean wheedled. "It's cool."

Sam stared at his bother. Did he really think he was going to fall for that tone of voice again? That was the voice that had him jumping off a shed roof, that was the voice that had him puking up his underage first shots of vodka in a motel toilet. That damn voice got him in so much trouble; time after time…someone needed to put the brakes on. "Dean…this…all this stuff, don't you think it's kind of excessive?" 

Dean gave Sam a look that he'd normally describe as hurt except that this was his brother, and they were talking about decorating a kitchen, so—not. 

Dean took a deep breath and Fidu—because leave it to Dean to shorten an already short name; how hard could it be to call the dog _'Fidus',_ for god's sake—slouched to his feet and ambled off the porch, heading towards the back yard. He was no fool. Sam watched him go with a sour look. The dog was neither dependable nor loyal. "Fidus, my ass," he muttered before turning his attention back to his fuming brother and his strange new hobby. "It's just…weird. Dean, you're talking about _decorating a kitchen."_

"No, Sam, I'm not. I'm talking about remodeling a barely usable kitchen and bringing it into the god damn 21st century." 

Sam sighed, watched Dean stomp off, his shoulders a tense line of outrage. His big brother was fixated on… _playing_ with this house and Sam just didn’t get it. Well, okay, he got it; it was just such a waste of their time. Dad's bizarrely hopeful dreams of a future aside, hadn't they learned the hard way that there could never be a thing as barely close to normal for them? He snatched the bottle off the table and tipped it up until it emptied in his mouth. From inside the house, he heard Dean sigh. And mutter something that sounded like _god help me_ and Sam bristled. He was participating as much as he could in Dean's plan to save the world one self-stick tile at a time. He got it. He was damaged, cracked, and at the moment, kind of a liability. He got that, too. But Dean was acting like this was _it,_ full stop, drop anchor, no matter all the blah-blah about this whole shit being temporary. Dean put a fucking _roof_ on the place. A roof. That was like…recarpeting a motel room, what the hell. 

He could hear Dean's phone going off through an open living room window. Sam's eyebrows curled down—he didn't know that ring tone. It wasn't one of Dean's 'clever' ones for friends and not the one that signaled _stranger_ —oh. His gut clenched, a shock of pain that sent him immediately on edge. Had to be Shelly calling, Shelly with her personal ring tone. He practically inhaled the last slug of piss-warm beer left in the bottle and mentally gave himself a swift slap. Why he resented Dean spending time with anyone else was beyond him. Especially considering half the time he and Dean were in the same room he wanted to kick his ass. He was sure Shelly was a nice person. Maybe Dean could take her to the fucking Church of Rehab Now instead, he could use the break. He set the bottle down gently on the little glass table because right now, for no reason at all, he was pissed as hell and he just might drive the fucking bottle right through the fucking top of it. 

"Hey, I'm gonna run down the road to Shel's. She said her brother's got some kinda plumbing problem going on—" He eyed Sam. Sam tried to make his face blank. "You ah, you wanna come with?" 

Sam knew as far as blank went his face was a damn open book. So much for that. "Nah, I'm gonna…I'm gonna organize the journal, redo some of those notes. 

"Man, don't touch the journal. Don’t touch the parts I did, they’re just how I like them. You're gonna fuck with 'em and I won't know shit."

"You don't know shit now. Go, fix pipes. I'll be here. I'll make dinner."

"Dude, the shit you make might as well be—hamster food. I'm a grown man, I need meat."

Sam stood and flicked an amused glance at Dean. "I'm gonna ignore the totally baseless insult and concentrate on the part where you confessed your deep need for meat. Dean? Something you wanna tell me?"

"Shut up." Dean grabbed the tool box still sitting by the front door no matter how much Sam'd bitched about it. Sam felt pretty good seeing as how he made Dean grin. That was okay. 

Sam made a mac&cheese& tuna casserole, Dean's "flush times" specialty, and idly flipped through that kitchen book Dean had lifted from the home goods store. He drank more of Dean's beer while he waited for the timer to go off and read the notes Dean had scribbled in the magazine's borders. He was surprised, surprised by _all_ of this. Dean had a pretty good eye for design and color. Sam knew a bit about it…he remembered Jess planning a painting, splotching pure white boards with little blocks of color until somehow she decided the color was just right, in some way that was as mysterious to him as the 'how' in why sage and salt kept you safe….

He hated to admit that he liked the direction Dean had taken for the kitchen. Plain but solid. Sturdy. The colors were muted, soothing. Lots better than the grapes and ivy that had been spread all over the kitchen wallpaper that had covered every inch of the walls and the back of the cabinets. Sam sighed. This was all so crazy, Dean was acting like this was home and it wasn't. It couldn’t be because home was something that was…for Winchesters, home was a myth. A fairy tale. "A lie," Sam muttered aloud and let the magazine fall closed.

Fidus came strolling back up the porch and scratched at the door. Through the screen Sam could see the dog—he fixed Sam with an impatient look. All the Winchesters were pains in his ass. "All right all right, I'm coming." 

Sam took the finished casserole out, fed Fidus, and managed to eat some of the mac&cheese stuff without any stray echoes. Seemed his brain was finally letting memories of Lucifer and his hallucinations fade. No more alarms or air horns going off at the first bite, no morphing of pasta into maggots and worms. He was almost starting to like noodles again. 

They set up on the couch, and Fidus wiggled and gnawed at Sam's fingers and toes until he finally got bored. He rooted around until he managed to shove his face into Sam's armpit and happily snored off to sleep. Sam let some documentary about African velds' ecosystems unfold on the TV but his mind was wherever Dean was, wondering what he was doing, what he was saying. Did he look happy? Was he relaxed? Was he screwing this Shelly girl right now, did she care that Dean was…damn. Dean was hanging on by the skin of his teeth. All of this, this home and hearth. It was practically a symptom of Dean falling apart. 

Sam hoped she was careful, he hoped Dean was. He wondered if he should call Meg and check in on Cas. Wondered if Dean had but was fairly certain that he hadn't. Dean tended to be slow to forgive if he thought someone hurt his little brother. That thought loosened up the tight feeling in Sam's chest. He drifted off to sleep waiting for his brother, and the documentary on TV sent springboks leaping through his dreams, bouncy and bright, full of life….

+

Dean was turning in circles in the middle of the kitchen, slowly, contemplatively, turning. His hands were on his hips, and his eyebrows crunched together, his lips were pursed, the expression Sam always thought of as Dean's "No Talk—Thinking Now" face. The windows were wide open, the back door, too. The room was flooded with light, falling on the set of paint chips Dean had taped to the wall. And also making all the fine gold hairs on Dean's arms glow, like he'd been sprinkled with gold dust…Sam blinked hard. He managed to wave at Dean's grunt acknowledging Sam's presence and headed for the fridge. Cold. Something cold right would be good.

He leaned against the opened fridge door, scanning the miserable contents of it…seemed like this shopping for food thing was a skill they'd both thoroughly lost. Sam straightened, stretched and groaned in satisfaction as his joints popped. "Should I make some sandwiches?"

"Wha—hunh?" 

Sam turned, frowning at his brother. "I asked you if you wanted a sandwich—you okay?" Dean looked a little squirrelly. He shrugged, grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess that means yes," Sam muttered. He slapped together the bits and pieces they had left in the fridge, enough to make a couple of sandwiches at least. "We definitely need to go food shopping," he mumbled around a bite of sandwich. "So, what's next, Bob Vila, we pulling out the cabinets and or what? Does Frank's generous endowment of our accounts allow for that?" 

"Well…no. Someone went a little overboard on power tools." Dean coughed dryly. "But this is what we do have." Sam followed Dean out to the back porch, ready to be amazed. Or at least mildly entertained. 

"We're just going to repaint the cabinets, refit the insides—it'll make 'em look brand new. It'll be fun."

"No it won’t, it hasn’t been fun yet."

"You lie," Dean snorted. "I know for a fact you love working with me."

Dean gave him that damn half-smirk and Sam swallowed. Yeah. He did. He really did. 

"So," Dean opened one of a half dozen cans of paints on the floor. "We clean the cabinets; prime 'em and then we paint. Easy-peasy." 

"Grey?"

"Matches the rest of the place. Hides the dirt," he said archly and nodded.

Sam jus managed to hold back a laugh. "Smart." 

"I know it."

In the course of a dozen days, they stripped and re-laid a floor and primed and painted the cabinets. They put in a new counter and spent a ridiculous amount of time fantasizing about adding a kitchen island—something Dean got a bug about one night when Sam described Jessica's mother's kitchen. Sam noted that not once did Dean offer any stories about the only other suburban home he'd known. He got it. Some day Dean might talk about life after Sam's swan dive but Sam knew it wasn't going to be anytime soon…right. Knowing his big brother like he did, it wouldn't be in this lifetime.

+

Sam was kicked up on the back porch and drinking with serious intent…not tying to get drunk, just trying for…quiet. Another night spent alone. He couldn't blame anyone. Not Dean, not that…Shelly…person. He only had himself to blame. The only one keeping him at home with the dog was, "Sam. Sammy. Just me. What the hell." He tilted his bottle at the man in the Moon, and sighed. He had no real idea what was keeping him locked inside. People didn't bother him anymore, not now that he didn't have to keep himself locked down. He didn't have to worry that Halluicfer was going to leak out of his brains, that constant battle not to let it show was done--gone. And people weren't scary, they were just…he just liked being on his own. Having time to think. To be himself without worrying about putting on a show for strangers, or for his brother.

Who at this moment was on another of those things he wouldn't call a date but really, what else could they be? He was happy for Dean. He deserved to have a woman to be with—at least one that lasted longer than a night. He deserved it. Sam knew that he'd pulled Dean away from Lisa, he hadn't forgotten that. Not for one minute. His fists tightened and Fidus whimpered. "Shit—sorry," Sam gasped, and let go the tight hold he had on Fidus' ruff. "I'm sorry, boy, I didn't realize." 

Fidus side-eyed him and the tip of his tail thumped on the boards, all forgiven in an instant. Sam sighed aloud. If it was that simple between him and Dean, life would be a whole lot easier. 

He wandered back into the house, picking up the scattered bits and pieces Dean left in the wake of leaving for his not-date. Sam shuffled car magazines and home magazines and…his eyes were caught by the garish cover of one of them—a flaming red and blue with horrible fake Chinese style lettering, cartoon Asian that made Sam wince in embarrassment for his caveman of a brother. _Busty Asian Beauties. God._ On the other hand, it was good to see that Dean was still Dean under all this HGTV stuff. He tossed the magazine onto the pile he'd made of the others. 

He shoved Dean's work boots into the hall closet, moved the toolbox to the back door. What the fuck, he thought and swept the bare wood floors down. That led him out to the kitchen and washing their dinner dishes and wiping the counters down with a mix of vinegar and water, something he'd learned living with Jess. She was great for cleaning and taught Sam that cleaning meant more than kicking all the wet towels into a corner until someone broke and did the laundry. He dusted and puttered until suddenly, horribly, he realized he was stress-cleaning. And the only reason he had to be stressed was Dean wasn't with him. Dean was gone. 

Sam planted his hands in his hair and griped—hard. The groan he let out had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with exasperation and disgust—at himself. "What. The. Fuck."

How was he jealous? He was _jealous_ of Dean. 

Or maybe Shelly. Shit, that was it. He was going to bed. With any luck, he'd have nightmares all night long and be too tired in the morning to give Dean a second thought.

+


	7. Chapter 7

_**Dean**_  
Dean woke up tired, uncomfortable and pissed off that he'd gotten so used to the house that not waking in his bedroom unsettled him. He lay flat on his back, one arm at his side and the other crossed over his chest. He blinked, staring upwards, and traced the outline of a tiger in a water spot on the ceiling. He followed its arched back, its swinging tail, the way its head turned towards an unseen thing, waiting for it to come closer…the crinkle of shifting sheets and a muffled snort at his side broke the spell; the tiger morphed back into a brown stain.

Shelly exhaled, a soft little sound, and snuffled into the pillows. Dean smiled…it sounded so much like Sam. She breathed slowly into wakefulness, her arm flailing across the blankets. Probably looking for Dean. They'd fallen asleep close, her back pressed against Dean's chest, her feet against his calves….

She rolled to her side and looked at Dean, blinking slowly. "Every time I wake up, you're over there and I'm over here," she mumbled. She looked more confused than annoyed. Dean shrugged.  
"Sheets are slippery." He laughed softly at her snort—this time there was no mistaking the definite tone of annoyance. He patted her hand, then eased out of bed, going for the clothes he'd thrown in the room's single chair. Shel's clothes were under his, he was careful not to knock them to the floor. He could hear Shel moving around the bed. A few seconds later she was behind him, a warm, soft press at his back. Considering what was going on between them, it should have been more comfortable than it was.

"So, I've been thinking about you and me…"

Dean flinched but covered it with sliding his jeans back over his hips. He made a small noise of _I'm listening._

"…and how there's not really a 'you and me.' Dean, I gotta tell ya, like you more than most any guy I've met in this town. Probably because you're not from this town, just like nearly everyone on the street. Did you know that? It's like completely weird that we all seemed to have swept up against the shores of this place and settled, like flotsam. Or is it jetsam? An' there I go, rambling again," she muttered.

Dean looked at her, raised an eyebrow. "Well…I, uh…" He had nothing. Fuck, it sounded like Shel was working her way towards the _let's take this to the next level_ speech. Maybe. Conversations with her tended to be all over the map and he wasn't always certain he got the point of them.

Shelly brushed past him to the chair, sorted her own clothes out. She pulled her shirt over her head, sniffed at her pits before smoothing it down. Dean fought a smile at that. He liked that about her—Shelly wasn't exactly a shy and delicate flower. She reminded him of Cassie in that way. Sexy, a little hard-headed, a bit of a short-fuse. Made things exciting. 

"Fresh as a daisy," she grinned and went on. "Anyway…I like you. We're good, right? Also you should know, if there was anything you wanted to talk to me about, like… _anything…_ I'm here to listen. No judgment. Okay?"

Dean shrugged his flannel shirt back over his t-shirt and nodded. Had no idea what the hell the woman was talking about. "Thanks, good to know. I, uh, like you, too."

Dean was totally puzzled by the knowing smile he got in return. Wished he knew what it was they'd seemed to have agreed on….

 

Dean closed the motel door behind them. They parted at their cars right after Shelly gave Dean a quick but sweet kiss good-bye.

***

The rest of that afternoon, while washing his car and all through making lunch—grilled cheese with tomatoes and bacon, tomatoes so Sam couldn't bitch about the lack of produce or what the fuck—he thought about what Shel said, with an extra concentration on the part where she said that there was no her and him. It went at odds with what seemed to be her angling for an exclusive…thing. Exclusive. He turned the idea over in his mind, juggled it, wondered if he had it in him to be a one girl guy again.

Exclusive. Should he want such a thing? He was thinking really hard about it, maybe too hard. What would Sam think? 

His thoughts didn't slow down even while he slaved away in the tangled patch of wild weeds and rocks Sam claimed was a neglected vegetable garden. He sweat and cursed as dirt somehow found its way into his eyes and mouth every time he blinked or breathed, like the damn soil was possessed. There were perfectly good places to buy vegetables and shit—dozens of them—but no, not for Sam, Mr. fuckin' GreenJeans.

He was pulling up the shit Sam had pointed out as weeds, apparently not doing a stellar job at it judging by the way his brother sighed, "For god's sake, Dean, those are weeds, that is a vegetable. Carrot, to be precise." 

Dean stewed and pulled before finally dropping the stupid basket and the stupid weeds. "Sam, you think Shelly wants, I don't know, a relationship?"

Sam jerked and some clunky, scissory-thing he had in his hand dropped to the ground. "Shit," he muttered and bent to pick it up. Dean watched the back of Sam's shirt ride up and the sweat-darkened edge of his jeans slip a little lower. 

'Sam looks good,' Dean thought, admiring how tan he was, he looked healthier than he'd had in a long time and Dean felt a warm spike of pride. _His boy._ He rubbed his thumb against the bright spot in his chest and waited for Sam's answer. "Well? Do you think she does?"

Sam turned to him. "I thought you were…in a relationship?" he asked slowly.

"No. we're—y'know. We hang out, we get drinks together. We just—" he shrugged.

"Fuck?" Sam said, and it had such a bitter edge to it that Dean was startled into silence. "Shit, sorry, that was rude." Sam threw the scissory-things in Dean's weed basket. "I'm gonna go get…water, yeah. We need water."

Dean just nodded and watched Sam walk back to the house, slow precise steps that were totally the opposite of Sam's usual long-legged lope. It hit him then, like a brick to the head—or to the chest, the way his breath caught so hard and sharp. 

_Sam was jealous._

Sam was jealous of Dean and what he thought he had with Shel. Damn it. Why hadn't he ever said _anything?_ He would've stepped aside and let Sam take a chance. Shit. And now Shelly was in love with _him_ and here he was, parading his whateveritwas with her in front of love-sick Sam—god _damn it,_ it explained so much. No wonder Sam was projecting sad vibes all over the landscape. He was like those fucking melted watches that guy painted, dripping sad stuff all over the house, all over everything. In fact, he'd begun to worry that maybe Lucifer was still taking his toll on Sammy in some way…and here it was just heartache, poor shit. 

Dean sighed and yanked a scraggly, leafy thing out of the ground—tried to shove it right back into the hole when he realized the little orange thing dangling from the fronds was _a carrot, you idiot_

"Fuck me." Dean sat down in the dirt, rubbed crumbly soil from his hands. The whole damn situation was bad. Still, it was a relief to know that this shit Sam was suffering from was the same old shit normal guys suffered from. He just wished that for once, _he_ wasn't the source of Sam's pain. Shit, if he thought it would help and he could get away with it, he'd toss Shelly right at Sam. but Shel would gut him and Sam would punch his lights out. 

Something cold and wet pushed into the back of his neck. "You know, there was a time when I would have shot first and apologized later…ya mutt." 

Fi gave him a dog-shaped grin and flopped on the ground next to him. "What'm I gonna do about Sammy, huh, Fi? Damn, what'm I gonna do about Shelly?"

Fi's tail beat against his leg and he had the good grace to look like he was really giving some thought to Dean's question. At any rate, he looked thoughtful chewing on the damn carrot thing he'd uprooted, the one Dean had tried to replant.

A few minutes later, Sam came out with a couple of bottles in a bucket of ice and a bowl filled with water and chunks of ice. They spent the rest of the evening in the garden where Dean learned more than he wanted to about gardens and weeds and Sam's awesome powers of research. Privately, he thought his original description of it as compulsive said so much more but Sam had issues with that. 'Cause he was a giant geek.

***

They sat on the couch, and watched Keanu Reeve be somehow wooden yet fluid at the same time while carrying some awesome fuckin' firepower on his person. They ate popcorn and Dean found a pack of licorice Sam had stashed in the couch cushions just for him. They watched the sequel as Sam slowly, majestically, slipped to Dean's side, and by the end of the movies had his nose stuffed in Dean's ribs, snoring away. Dean shifted and Sam just burrowed in tighter. The light from the set gleamed off Sam's cheekbones, the curve of his chin, his lips. His hair was wild, disheveled and hung in his face so that his eyes were hidden. Dean was seized with a weirdly urgent need to see Sam's whole face. He brushed it quickly away and somehow that became a slow, steady stroke through the hair, feeling how warm Sam's skin was, how soft his hair was. Dean felt comfortable and oddly safe. Strange to think he felt more relaxed and comfortable here on the couch with Sam soaking his shirt in spit than…than anywhere else.

***

_  
**Sam**   
_  
Sam woke up with a deep feeling of sadness, fading out like fog. Before he could pick the feeling apart, the aches and pains that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his body demanded his attention. His shoulders ached; his hands were cramping a little from being clenched in the sheets, his damn leg was asleep because someone who couldn't believe they weren't a lapdog was stretched across it, twitching and yipping through a dream. A typical House Winchester morning.

Speaking of morning…he didn’t smell coffee or frying bacon which meant he'd be waking up alone. Having toast for one. Crazy how quickly he'd gotten used to having Dean cook him breakfast every day and not just because Sam couldn't fry an egg to save his life. He knew Dean really liked it, cooking for him. But that wasn’t happening today. And he was not pouting. Dean not making breakfast was no big deal, he couldn't be expected to wait on Sam anymore—he had a girlfriend. Sort of…Dean didn't seem sure if she was or not. Fuck, it would be just like Dean to treat Shelly like she was on extended hook-up. Sam burned with indignation for Shelly. It wasn't right for Dean to treat him—her—that way. She seemed like a nice person. 

So why did Sam want to kick her down the stairs every time he saw her little face at the door? 

"No I don't!" he insisted to the air, and to Fidus, who twitched himself out of sleep at the sound of Sam's voice. The sad feeling grew, before anger at himself snuffed it out. He was a mature adult; he didn't need anyone to check on him to see if he slept okay or if he was hungry.

***

Sam took small steps around the shower; he curled over into the stream. Wondered idly if there was a way to raise the showerhead—it'd be nice to take a shower and wet his whole body at once instead of in stages.

He'd really love a high shower head, nice big shower, big enough to turn around without holding his arms tight to keep from ripping the shower curtain down. A really wide shower, with maybe a bench across the back. Sometimes his back ached and it'd be great to sit and just let hot water pound on sore muscles…a shower big enough to share. He closed his eyes and let warm water pour down his chest, over his dick. His hand followed the stream, cradled his dick. Sharing a shower…when was the last time he'd shared anything with anyone? It felt like forever since he'd jerked off, even. He moved his hand slowly; thoughtfully…did Dean do it in the shower? Stupid question—it was Dean. He'd spent his formative years trying to block the sound of Dean masturbating. Sam shivered and ran his fingers up and down the length of his dick as it hardened, jumped eagerly at his touch. He tried to remember if Dean took longer or shorter showers since his girlfriend dropped into their lives. 

He tightened his grip and stroked harder. Dean was probably running around after her right now, like a bitch in heat—Dean, not Shelly. Sniffing around her…a too clear picture of his brother's back working, his hips snapping, driving his dick into Shelly, filled the whole of his mind. 

Sam whipped his hand away from his dick with a gasp. Fuck—the thought hurt but turned him on as well. He knew just how the muscles in his brother's back moved, he knew what Dean looked like when he was hot and sweating and working with that single minded desire to get the job done—cutting wood, painting, grave digging—

He imagined the rest, imagined Dean's bare ass, tight and round…the clench and release as he snapped his hips back and forth. Sam imaged feeling those muscles at work under his hands, bunching and rolling under satin-smooth, freckled skin. What must it be like, feeling Dean's dick, hot and heavy inside, the pull and push not quite slick enough but so fucking good, Dean shaking and grinding against him, trying to get in deeper, harder, faster…fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Orgasm rushed through him like a punch to the brain, the need of _gotta come, gotta come now now_ and then the shuddering release, slamming through him like freight train hit of ecstasy…his hand filled with come, hotter than the shower for a moment. He rubbed it into his skin, let the shower whisk it away. 

"Fuu-uck…" He was shaky on his feet, his hand wobbled, pushing away the wet hair clinging to his face. He was rolling in the good, warm, tingly feeling that still made his hips jerk, his dick give a few half-hearted twitches…he smiled because it felt so damn good. And then that particular fantasy reran. 

"Oh, holy shit. Oh god, no."

He barreled out of the shower, stumbling over the little ledge. He ripped his towel from the rack; he needed to be covered, fuck, right now—

He ran into the bedroom and dressed like a banshee was scratching at the window. Run, that's what he needed, an excellent idea, running. Get out of the house before Dean came home and caught him and his incest riddled, brother-fucking wanna-be id half naked in a towel, stinking of guilt and panic-sweat.

Sam called Fidus to him; he needed company on the run—insurance that he wouldn't try to run right out of the state.

***

It was good, actually. Running cleared his head, always did. Even when he was a kid, and complained non-stop and claimed he hated it. Running didn't require aim, didn't need for him to strategize the best way to snuff something out. Running was something he was good at—he'd always outrun his dad, outrun his brother. A little voice said, 'because you were always trying to run from them when all they wanted was to protect you' but he didn't pay it much mind. It wasn't true and besides, he had lots of practice in ignoring interior voices saying hurtful things….

 

Sam ran past the house Shelly had mentioned as belonging to some guys she'd described as an old married couple…Ford and Donnie, right. One of the guys, an older guy, dark skinned, close-cropped hair going white, flagged him down as he sprinted past…he trotted back towards the porch. 

The guy looked Sam over thoroughly, peering over the top of his readers, finger tucked into the book he lowered to his lap. His eyes were big and a deep brown, and his smile was so warm that Sam found himself smiling back. "Oh, you're the one who moved into the end house with his young man. Nice to have family in the neighborhood," he said.

Sam blinked…family? "He's not my young—he's my—my friend. Partner." Sam nodded. "Partner," he repeated. A nice, neutral word.

"Of course," the man said. "Donnie and I were 'bachelor brothers' for a long time before he finally became my husband. Times can change for the better."

"Oh hello—is Ford boring you?" Another white-haired man came out to the porch, dark-skinned as well, almost as tall as Sam. Sam could see that once he'd been built the same but he'd spread a bit with age. "The man can go on and on. Bore a rock to tears."

Ford scowled at Donnie but it was obvious there was no real heat behind it. "Don’t talk about me like I can't hear. This is one of the boys who moved in down the road." 

It felt odd to be called boys again by someone who meant it. He liked it. Reminded him of Bobby…though Bobby'd never looked at him the way Ford currently was. Donnie rolled his eyes and elbowed Ford and Ford smirked wider—reminded Sam of Dean. Felt a little less wary because of it, less on edge, the way he felt all the time now around strangers. "Yes sir, hello. I'm Sam Smith." Sam was grateful to Frank for having made up their new identities…he'd have died of embarrassment introducing himself as some hair metal god…. "And this is Fidus." 

Fidus wagged his tail and tilted his head. He wagged it harder when Ford complimented him, told him what a handsome dog he was. "Fidus, trustworthy and loyal. What an appropriate name. I can see you’re a good boy," he told Fidus and Sam warmed towards them a little more. 

"I'm Donnie Spriggs and the one trying to sweet talk your dog away is my husband, Ford. This one's sig other is always at that damn hardware place up the street," he said to Ford, "Just like you, you love that place."

Ford nodded. "It's true, I do." Something about Ford's expression just then was so much like Dean's that Sam just laughed. Both the men grinned.

"You look very nice when you smile," Donnie said. 

"Dimples," Ford said. "That'll do it every time. You and your man have to come by for drinks one night."

 

"That sounds good. I'll talk to Dean about it." He waved and headed back to the house, slower than when he'd started out. 

His man. Fuck. So much for distracting himself from the werewolf in the corner. Well, screw that. It was just a stupid fantasy that no one needed to know about. It was some leftover thing from all the horrible shit they'd gone through the past year. It was a—a—a brain fart. 

_You and your man…_ Sam shook his hair out of his face, wiped sweat from his eyes and thought. It was true, in a way. Dean was his. After all the blood they'd spilled with and for each other, damn right Dean was his. Maybe it was in a weird and fucked up way, but he was. Just like he was Dean's in the same way. And if he knew now that he wanted to have more of Dean than he was willing to admit to _anyone_ on the planet, well that was something he'd have to confront at some time. Just not now.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Dean**_  
Dean stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel from the stack on the toilet tank. He rubbed his face briskly, swept it over his body as quickly as he could. He fished his watch out of the jumble of his clothes on the floor—nine AM. Fuck, he felt like he hadn't slept at all. All he wanted was to get dressed and get back home.

He just…he couldn't do this anymore. He was sorry Shel was in love with him but he couldn't worry about that. It sucked and it was completely dickish of him but he had Sam to think of. If there was any way that being with Shel would help, then he felt obligated to let Sam have his shot. Shit, he liked Shel just fine but not like that. She was fun and a good fuck but taking a step back and looking at what they had, it was more an extended one-night stand than a relationship.

 _Damn…_ he winced, almost dropped the towel. That was a seriously shitty way to look at this thing. Fucking unfair to Shel and made him feel like a…not good guy. "Yeah, well, there you have it," he muttered. He tossed the towel and grabbed his jeans, wobbling as he fought them over still-damp hips. Thinking that way made him an asshole but it was also the truth. Nothing about Shelly made his heart race, made him want her closer. When he kissed her, he thought about Sam, he worried about him. The more time he spent with Shel, the more Sam was slowly, quietly, withdrawing and Dean could only think of one way to fix that.

He finished dressing, rubbed his fingers quickly through wet hair and avoided his eyes in the bathroom mirror before stepping out into the latest room they'd rented. It was a nice place, nothing like the hideous joints he and Sam were used to. This place had smooth blankets, extra pillows and clean carpet. It had a damn a mini-bar. So why did he feel like he was rolling out of bed at some rent- by-the –hour dump? Why was he renting a room, period? He'd fucked Shelly more than a handful of times now and each time he'd taken her to a hotel instead of bringing her home to his house. She'd never once been in his bedroom.

Alright, he might be a little slow-boat but he was getting that separating Sam from Shel probably wasn't about not wanting to shove it in Sam's face—not just about that. It was way more important than wanting privacy. He couldn't imagine Shelly in any of the spaces in his and Sam's house. He was starting to realize that there wasn't any room in the house for _anyone_ else besides Sam. And that sex with Shel? Was nice, great, but not the point. It was the fucking _touching_ another human being, throwing yourself into their smell and sinking into their warmth and not in a way that had to do with fucking…god, just being with someone who knew you and still wanted to be with you….

Problem was, Shel didn't know him, not really. Who knew him like that? No one now. Except for Sam, who knew almost everything about him. Dean curled over on the edge of the bed and gripped his face in both hands and squeezed. Okay, he was not an idiot, he wasn't. Except for how he _was_ the biggest idiot to draw breath and an asshole for treating Shelly like…well, like the way he'd been treating her. It _was_ unfair.

Shelly, on the other hand, was absolutely not an idiot. Shelly, who was currently collecting her clothing, probably knew all about this thing that was a revelation and a brick to the face for Dean. She glanced over, a little line of worry between her eyebrows. She snagged a pair of embellished jeans off the floor, shimmied into them before pulling that tight t-shirt that was a favorite of Dean's over her head. Dean groaned and dropped back onto the wrecked bed. She was so fucking hot, god, how could he not want to be with her? What the hell was wrong with him that right now, the best place he could think of was next to Sam, sitting on their porch furniture, watching him throw tennis balls for Fi?

She came to sit next to him and sighed, a sound so sad and so defeated that Dean flinched. It was too reminiscent of his little brother. Shelly patted his hand and said, "So. This is…this…you've been great. _We've_ been great for what it was. But, for what it could be, this is kind of not working, y'know?"

What would be _great_ was if he could honestly claim he had no idea what she was talking about. Despite the fact that even for Shelly, that was a convoluted statement, he got it right out of the gate. And as much as Dean really wanted to say, "No, no, you're wrong, this is just fine, we're still great," nothing would come out.

She bumped against him, shoulder to shoulder, and smiled. It wasn't a good one, it only went as far as her mouth and Dean felt like the worst kind of fuck when her lip trembled. "Yeah. So, when are you gonna man up and let your partner know it's not that unrequited?"

"Partner? Unrequited? Whu…?" A hot, sick, flush rushed over him when he got that she meant his damn brother. "I…Sam?" It took a second for his brain to catch up and shut down an achingly hot flash of shirtless brother--

 _Oh!_ Now he got it, he understood what she meant. Seemed he'd been way off base thinking Shelly was in love with him— _of course_ she didn't love him. What the hell had he been thinking? Not like he wasn't used to being Second String Winchester…still, if she tried to move right on to Sam, Sam probably wouldn't have it. He might think he was being disloyal by jumping right into Dean's place. He shouldn't. Sam should grab whatever chance he had for happiness, hell, with Dean's blessing.

Dean was sinking a little deeper into self-pity when Shel startled him out of his funk by jabbing an elbow into his ribs—he rubbed his side, frowning. Sometimes being with Shel was like hanging out with Sam.

"Stop pretending like you feel sorry for you and me going poof. Remember when we met the first time and I mentioned Ford and Donnie? We don’t _care._ This neighborhood—this is like a safe place, okay? No need to hide, okay? No one cares that Margie and Frank are mixed, that Ford and Donnie are an old married couple…all of us, we won't care if you and Sam are—I mean, _you_ might be bi and all, I'm assuming, because, y'know, nice job, no really, _great_ job—but it's not here you want to be so you need to be where you want."

Dean was staring at her, open-mouth and flabbergasted, an expression wasted on Shel who was staring at the floor like the answer to the universe was printed there. She finally lifted her eyes and looked at Dean, and recoiled. "Holy shit, you don't even know, do you? Sam…damn. He looks at you like you're the cream in his coffee and you don't even know? He's got it bad for you, Dean. Pay attention!"

She made a move like she was going to smack him—Dean raised his hands, "Wait, wait, you're—you’re getting this all wrong. Sam's into you, _hard,_ Shelly. He really, really likes you. And if you wait a bit, let him get that we're really over—" Shelly winced and Dean worried she thought he was trying to push her at Sam like a consolation prize. He ignored what she'd said. She didn't know Sam, she barely knew him. Whatever she thought she was seeing—between _him and Sam,_ for god's sake what the hell—she had no way of knowing how impossible that was, for a whole bunch of reasons, brother almost being the least of them.

"Dean. Pretty sure the only person getting this wrong is _you,_ okay? Look, I'm sorry we stalled out, but honestly, mostly because I'm gonna miss hanging out with you and also, wow, that pretty dick. Hell, I knew from the beginning there never was much of a chance but—selfish. And I totally get I was being kinda sucky to Sam. Shit, when the sex haze wears off, I'm gonna feel like major _shit_ for what I did to Sam but damn, you're really good at what you do and you're just…fun." She shrugged in a helpless way and Dean stared at her, still wide-eyed and open-mouthed and actually dizzy with all the bizarro revelations.

So. He tried to process this bizzaro world he'd just woken up in. He'd been complimented on his dick, how he fucked, found out that apparently he'd never been a more than a fuck-buddy—and damn it, if he'd known that all along, he would have enjoyed this more…wait. What she did to Sam?

"Let's move it, Anderson, before we get charged for another day."

Before he could ask what she meant, Shel hopped up and headed for the door, with him right behind. Couldn't help it, her little strut was still sexy as hell. He walked her out to the car, held the door open for her while she rolled her eyes and patted his shoulder like she'd pet Panda. "Let me get you breakfast—brunch," Dean said, a little reluctant to head back to Sam right after fucking. Or maybe right after getting dumped.

"Didn't you catch the part where we broke up?" The grin she gave him was soft and a little shaky. "Or, y'know, called an end to benefits?"

Dean blushed red. "Hey, hey, come on now. Besides, food isn't a benefit, it’s a requirement."

"Dean. Maybe you should go home and talk to Sam."

Dean dropped his head and dragged his foot through the gravel in the motel's driveway. "Please come to breakfast with me? 'Cause I'm hungry. And I like talking to you."

"And I'm an idiot. C'mon, let's get eggs. Your treat."

  
* * *

They sat on opposite sides of a white and red starburst patterned table. Dean kind of liked that the place wasn't retro so much as it'd just never been updated after its doors had first opened. There were chips in the Formica, and some of the booths were patched with red duct tape. But the place smelled good, bacon and pancakes and coffee. It looked clean, and the waitresses were quick and attentive.

They were there no longer than a minute or two before one of those attentive waitresses was at their table with a smile. "Hey, Shel, hey…Dean, right?" She grinned when Dean nodded. "What can I get ya'll?"

"Um. Coffee and a number three for me. Dean?"

"I'll have the three and some extra bacon. Coffee as well, thanks."

"Right on it, hon." She gave Dean a lingering, thorough check-out, thorough enough to make Dean blush a bit, and left their table with a wide smirk.

Shelly shook her head. "Watch yourself, hot-stuff. Doris is sixty if she's a day and totally not safe. That old woman is incorrigible."

Dean laughed, "I like it. I wanna be just like that when I'm her age."

"Oh, so you wanna be sorting a white up-do and Easy Spirits while flirting your ass off with random strangers for laughs?"

Dean made a face at Shel and she snickered. She bit her lip to keep from laughing when Doris brought their food out and promised Dean anything he needed, like, any old thing at all, she was just a whistle away. "You do know how to whistle?" she misquoted and Dean just about buried his face in his pancakes and eggs, face burning. He might have enjoyed them more if Shel hadn't decided that whistling quietly every time he tried to drink his coffee was the most hysterical thing ever. He was debating whether tossing his toast at her would be worth the pain when she fixed him with a serious look. _Oh Shit,_ he thought. He had no doubt he wasn't going to like whatever was on her mind, especially considering how weird she was being about Sam. 

"So. Can I ask…why me? Why aren't you talking to Sam?"

"You don't…look; it's not what you think. Me and Sam have…have been together for a long time." Dean stopped and stared at the little red starbursts scattered across the table top. "I've known him forever, but not in the way you're thinking; we're close, close as brothers." Shel snorted softly and Dean looked up at her. _"Really._ I love him, yeah, but it's not a—a physical thing, y'know? I look out for him and he looks out for me."

Shelly gave him a vaguely doubtful look and Dean shook his head. "No, he's going through a rough time right now. I can't explain but. He's better now, he's dealing. There's no one else I'd want at my back when Sam's a hundred percent—hell, there's no one I trust better at my back than Sam right now, as he is. It's just not what you think."

Shel nodded and tossed a few bills on the table. She held her hand up when Dean protested. "Please—let me treat you like a kept man this one last time," she said, and winked. On their way out the door, Shel said, "You know, you keep saying it's not like that. Maybe you need to make it clear to Sam. Because you're being a giant dick if you don't."

Dean fumbled opening the diner's doors—he almost walked into the glass. There was no way he could explain to Shel that anything she was seeing from Sam was the sheer relief of being alive and relatively sane. If she saw anything when they left the house to Sam, it was probably the complete joy of getting Dean out of his hair for a few hours.

  
* * *

He let himself into the house and set a bag of donuts and two take-out cups of coffee on the kitchen table. Not that he was feeling guilty for not being there to make breakfast for Sam. Sam was a grown man after all…he didn't need Dean to cook for him. But he was willing to bet Sam hadn't done a thing towards feeding himself, probably fucking around with the laptop. Had to be hungry as hell by now….

"Hey Sam! I brought bad stuff for breakfast!"

No answer. No Sam downstairs, no dog, so he trotted upstairs. No Sam upstairs, either…he licked his lips and took a few slow deep breaths, walked casually to Sam's room. He opened the door, ready to smile, apologize, but Sam wasn't in the room. A towel and sweatpants were on the floor, and his bed was a mess. Dean's heartbeat picked up some. He walked slowly to Sam's closet. The door was open so he pushed it wider.

Sam's duffle was in the corner, his backpack and ancient messenger bag set on top. Of _course._ Not like they'd be anywhere else, fer fuck's sake.

He sat on Sam's messy bed. Running his hand over Sam's sheets, he found they were still warm. He would have felt like a damn fool, if he'd let himself admit to what had his breath balling up in his throat. Must be out on a run with Muttly.

"Aw, fuck it." He was fuckin' tired, felt like he hadn't slept a wink in days. Shelly slept like sleep was a competition she had to win at all costs—he had bruises all up and down his shins to prove it. Lisa never moved, she slept like the—she slept hard. It was soothing. Holding her had let him sleep most nights. Once he got used to it.

Lisa. He missed her. Missed that life, missed Ben. Sometimes he felt guilty, but he wasn't sure if he felt guilty for leaving or guilty because the way he missed them didn't begin to come close to the way he'd missed Sam when he wasn't there.

Dean shifted on the bed; somehow he'd ended up curled on his side with Sam's pillow cradling his head, Sam's blankets wrapped around him. He'd kicked his boots off at some point, shit; he didn't even remember doing it. He was so comfortable, the bed was so warm and Sam wrapped him up so perfectly. He drifted off with the smell of Sam easing him into was warm, velvety, deep, dark….

  
* * *

__  
**Sam**

Sam trotted up the sidewalk, his breath hitched with surprise when he saw Dean's baby parked in the driveway. It was odd that Dean had left her in the drive instead of pulling her around to the garage but Sam was kind of glad—he needed the warning, needed to get himself prepared for his brother's stupidly beautiful face. God, he wished he'd never let that shit out of the box.

"Damn it, damn it…" He walked inside, listening for where Dean was. The house was really quiet, no TV, no music, no Dean singing to himself in the shower.  There was, however,  a bag of donuts and a couple of cups of coffee sitting on the kitchen table. "Coffee of Guilt, eh?" He smiled a bit; it faded when he touched the cups—cold, and both still full. _Hunh._

He let Fidus out the back door and went upstairs. He looked in Dean's room—empty. He went down the hall and pressed his ear to the bathroom door. Quiet, no sound of any kind…his cheeks flushed red. He went back down the hall and into his bedroom and there was Dean, sacked out on his bed. He stood over him, willing himself to absolute stillness as he looked. Looked and looked, almost his fill. This man, _his man_ …tears burned his eyes. Sam swallowed, reached out and very, very gently touched Dean's cheek. His finger barely traced the arch of his cheekbone. All those freckles…those eyelashes. He smiled. That one freckle on his lip. He remembered when he was a kid; how he'd wanted to pick it off because it'd bothered him. He laughed softly and touched the tip of his finger to it. Shook his head. He really was a fool.

Sam went back downstairs and started dinner.

  
* * *

A couple of hours after Sam had finished dinner, washed and out away the pots, Dean wandered into the kitchen. He was barefoot, his hair on end, one side of his face creased from the pillow. He blinked at Sam with red eyes; he had drool crusted in the corner of his mouth. _Fucking gorgeous bastard,_ Sam thought, _puffy eyes and all._

"Shit, Sam. Why'dja let me sleep all day, dude? I woulda cooked for us—hey, spaghetti, and garlic bread. Umm." He sat down at the table, flashed Sam a grin and started to eat. They ate in silence for a bit—it felt good, watching Dean eat, listening to the little noises of approval he made as he did. Sam smiled down at his plate, feeling some of the snags and pulls in the fabric of himself ease. He was glad that they were here. Glad they were together.

Sam wondered if Dean was getting some kind of spill-over from Sam's emotions—he kept glancing up, opening his mouth like he was going to say something, only to shove a heaping forkful of spaghetti in instead.

Sam spoke first. "Ford and Donnie invited us to drinks."

Dean blinked, grabbed his napkin and swiped in the general direction of his mouth. "Ah…the old gay guys? Hunh. What'd you say?"

"Said yes." Sam tried to ignore the blob of sauce sitting right in the center of Dean's lip.

"Oh." Dean nodded, and licked his lip clean. Sam was relieved, disappointed. "Okay. Do we like…bring wine?" Dean asked, frowning.

Social visits--a concept that was completely alien to Dean. Sam smiled encouragingly. "Sure. I guess. Why not?"

"Okay." Dean nodded again and went back to attacking his plate. They ate in comfortable silence until Sam slowly became aware that Dean was...fidgeting. He cocked an eyebrow at his brother. Dean cleared his throat and muttered, "Ah…Shelly and I broke up. Sort of."

Sam was shocked—he'd been expecting Dean to confess to pulling all the carrots up, or accidentally mowing over one of his shrubs—definitely not this. He put his fork down, and tried to project sympathy into his voice, his expression. "I'm sorry Dean. I know you liked her a lot."

Dean switched his intense gaze from his plate to Sam. "I liked her fine. But it turned out we weren't in a relationship after all. And she said some stuff—" he raised his hand at Sam's thunderous look—"No, no, not bad stuff, just stuff that I have to think about. Shelly's a good person. And fun. But she's just not—" he stopped and cleared his throat again. "Not…"

He shrugged, eloquent as always and Sam smiled at him, a little bubble of warmth slowly spreading in his chest. "I'm glad you didn’t get hurt. I'm sorry it didn't work out for you, though…" He ignored the way Dean huffed. He wasn't in the mood to try and decipher it. "I...I guess that means you're back to hanging around here...more projects, hunh?"

"Yeah," Dean said, his expression uncertain, his lips wobbled between a scowl and a smile.

_"Good."_

It seemed to be what Dean wanted to hear. He smiled at Sam, one of those smiles that ended with Dean's tongue peeking behind his teeth and Sam felt that bubble swell huge inside of him. Warm tingles rushed over his skin and the smile on his own face grew. They sat at the table, chewing spaghetti and smiling at each other. Sam managed not to jump when he felt Dean's foot slide against his own. If he didn't call his attention to it, then Dean wouldn't move and he could pretend Dean did it on purpose.


	9. Chapter 9

**Sam**  
"—backyard. It looks like a wildlife preserve out there." 

Sam stopped mid-chew. "Wha?" Friggin' eight o'clock in the morning, he'd barely been up for half an hour, neither one of them had had coffee yet, but Dean wanted to talk? 

His spoon tilted, dripping cereal back into his bowl…mostly. "Shi—" He tried wiping the milk up but the dollar store napkins Dean insisted were just as good as the national brand immediately disintegrated. He scooped the wet paper into a little pile. "What do you know about wildlife preserves?" The very idea of Dean having an iota of interest in something like that made Sam want to giggle.

Dean turned away from the coffee pot, scratching his bare belly and inadvertently dragging his thread-bare Sponge Bob boxers somewhat sideways. Sam struggled to keep his eyes on his brother's face, and not dancing from bare shoulders, to bare nipples, to the dark hair trailing downwards from Dean's bellybutton into his boxers….

"There's lots you don’t know about me, Sammy. I was a busy boy while you were upstate doing time."

 _"College,_ Dean, I was at _college. Ass."_ Sam figured Dean was hinting that somewhere along the way, he'd spent time with some girl who actually into something besides…purple nurples or whatever. 

He swept soggy balls of paper from the table into his hand, got up to toss the mess. He managed somehow, in a kitchen that was not all that small, to drag the whole of his self across Dean's naked back. He just managed to shut down a shudder, but he swore that Dean went tense for a moment before relaxing. Sam wanted desperately to think about that, what it meant, but he'd have to do that later. Maybe in the shower. 

"Anyway, we need to do something with that scary mess. Grass is high enough to hide chupacabras out there."

"There are gophers," Sam said, and it was meant to be a simple observation, _there are gophers out there,_ but trust Dean to leap on it, smirking like the self-satisfied bastard he was. Shit, Dean was going to take that goofy statement and run with it and fucking never let up before he sucked all the juice out of it...Sam was kind of irritated that he found himself trying not to smile.

"Yeeaaah, I wouldn't worry too much about them, Samantha. They probably won’t eat us; I hear their kind are vegetarians."

"Herbivores, and I meant that we'll be…oh, never mind." Sam sighed internally. Because, yeah, he'd just made it worse. Dean was probably a minute from laughing his ass off.

"Aww, are we worried about disturbing their habitat? Unsettling their little gopher lives? Chyeeah, okay, Mark Trail. Look, it’s my backyard, I say they have to go, and that's that. In fact, where's that dog of yours? Why isn't he out there earning his keep, chasing the damn things off?" 

He scowled at Fidus, who at the moment was flopped out under Sam's chair, moving just enough to occasionally lick Sam's ankles. Of course, as soon as the dog realized Dean was looking at him, he scooted out from under Sam's chair and made a beeline to Dean. Fidus was no fool; he knew where the weak link was.

Dean snorted, and started making coffee, loudly proclaiming that he was totally ignoring the dog. Sam scowled himself. Apparently ignoring Fidus meant dropping a piece of toast on the floor without actually eying him.

"Dean, damn it. This is why he won't stay out of the way in the kitchen. Why should he hunt gophers when you're making him fat—" Sam stopped, reviewed what he'd just said. "And why do we have these weird conversations?"

Dean stopped, his coffee halfway to his mouth. "Um…we talk about rawheads and rugarus and ghouls and demons on the regular and _this_ is your idea of a weird conversation?" Dean hesitated, "No, you know what? You _are_ right. For us, this is weird." He beamed at Sam and Sam couldn't help it, he laughed, a little snicker that popped out, swelled into a howl of laughter that bent him over the table. Dean joined in after a moment and Sam loved it—it was like being parched and then suddenly being caught in a summer shower. It felt damn _good_ to laugh like that, felt damn good to laugh with _Dean._

Dean wiped his eyes and beamed at Sam, and Sam thought how incredible Dean looked, with his bright eyes, that wide, uncomplicated smile. 

"What a bitch, right?" he snickered, and Sam just laughed some more.

 **Dean**  
After breakfast, Dean headed out to the back yard, the over-long grass whipping against his shins. He rooted around in the cool gloom of Baby's garage, and after a few minutes, struck paydirt. 

Against the back wall, shoved up against a tool bench, he found an ancient lawn mower under a blue plastic tarp. He tried to get it started—tried screwing with it himself because a motor was a motor was a motor but ended up loading it on the back of the old truck to take into town. He'd seen a place earlier, on one of his get-out-the-house trips, that claimed to fix lawn mowers and small appliances and sold them, too. He'd planned on checking the shop out anyway, until he found this mower in the garage.

+

The place looked like it'd been a garage at one time—its rolling door was up, opening the front of the shop to the outside. There was a guy behind a long counter who eyed Dean strangely. Dean thought it was unfair of him, considering that he sported a long-ass pony tail, ink up his neck and into his hair line, not to mention he was pretty sure the guy was wearing eyeliner and that was way over the top for working in some garage. Not that he was one to judge. It made Ponytail's green eyes look _crazy_ green. A cough dragged him out of his thoughts. The guy had a weird look on his face and Dean figured he'd been staring just a little too hard.

"Welcome to Howard's Small Repairs," he said with a slightly doubtful tone, like he wasn't really sure Dean was all that welcome. "New in town?"

"Eh, depends," Dean said. "I don't think I am; we've been here a good few months. But I guess for people who've lived here for all their lives—yeah, I'm new in town."

The guy looked Dean up and down like he was examining him, seemed to come to come kind of conclusion, and nodded. "I guess. Whatcha got there?" He peered at the mower Dean had rolled up on the concrete apron that led into the shop. "Whoa. We don’t buy antiques, dude. Or junk."

Dean laughed. "Hey man, don’t insult my mower—it can't be more than, what, ten, fifteen years old? It's practically brand-new. Can you fix it or not?"

"Maybe. I'll give it a shot. Come on back tomorrow and I'll let you know. I'd do it today but I got another mower and a VCR I'm working on." 

"A VC-what?" Dean grinned. "You're kidding. I get saving stuff worth saving—" he gestured at the mower, "but some shit's just not worth it."

"Oh yeah, Mr. Flintstone-mower?" Ponytail grinned back at him, lop-sided and decidedly friendlier. "I guess it just depends on your priorities. 'Sides, old folks get real sentimental about things; it doesn't hurt me to go along with them. I make a couple of bucks, and they get happy."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, never hurts to make a little money. Okay, well, might be my partner coming in tomorrow instead of me. Is that okay?"

"Sure. Long as his money's good as yours," the guy said, and gifted Dean with a another crooked smile, crows-feet fanning out from his eyes to his cheeks Dean figured the guy must be a little older than he'd first thought—crows-feet and a bit of gray in that ponytail. Cool, though. Seemed like a good guy. Sam'd be okay dealing with him.

"Great. My name's Dean. And if I don't make it in tomorrow, look for a big ol' yeti of a guy."

"Howard," he said. "Look for a yeti. Gotcha."

Dean waved good-bye, and headed out. So, Eye-liner owned his own shop. Also cool. 

He swung himself into the truck and put it into drive. So. That was taken care of, and tomorrow he'd know if he had to spring for a new mower or not. He winced a little, thinking of just how big that backyard was, but they were young and strong, between the two of them they could clear out that yard. Next stop, the hardware store. He hoped his next appointment panned out the way he wanted—it would sure be helpful if it did.

+

He came in much, much later that day. Sam was at the stove, making something Dean hoped was edible, though he didn't hold out much hope. When he'd left that morning, they'd had a few onions, a couple of packs of ramen noodles and not much else. Whatever Sam was cooking smelled good, though. He dropped the bags of groceries on the table. "Dude, what're you doing?"

 _"Shit_ Dean, where've you _been?_ I called a couple of times and you didn’t answer."

Dean was about to tease Sam about being all possessive, until he actually looked at him. 

Sam had been doing damn good since they landed in this house of dad's. Like, really fucking good. But today, he was gray, shaky, and the skin around his eyes was tight. His lips were tight, but Dean could see a slight tremor when Sam licked his lips. "Hey, hey…what happened?

"Ah, nothing really," Sam sighed, he dragged both hands through his truly unruly hair. _haircut, past due,_ Dean thought. "I just. I fell asleep, on the porch. And…I guess I had a bad dream. And there was howling in my dream and I thought, you know, that. That He was back. Screaming and howling in my ear. So, I tried to fight back and fell off the porch, I guess. Woke up when I hit the bottom step." 

Sam shrugged, trying for nonchalant but Dean knew Sam too well, the kid was worried. In the sudden quiet, Dean realized that he'd been hearing a noise since he'd been home, a sort of whining growl. "Oh! Gas trimmer," he said. "They can be noisy."

"Yeah," Sam laughed weakly. "Yeah, I know that now but…it took me a little longer than I liked settling down, you know. Fidus helped. You were a good boy," he said to the dog at his feet. 

Damn it, he'd known Sam had been looking stressed lately, but he'd seemed to be getting better, in fact, he'd started perking up again around the time he'd broken it off with Shel—which, that whole thing still confused him. 

"Sam. Sam, damn it…I'm sorry. Shit. Sorry you were alone. I should have been he—"

Sam was shaking his head. "No, no, it’s not like you can be here twenty-four/seven, right? Besides…I know it was just a nightmare, you know? It was just a nightmare, nothing more. I haven’t had a—a big problem since that first day, y'know. Seriously, I've been fine. I don’t know why today was…I thought…I thought I was getting better…" 

Dean stepped in Sam's face, latched on to his biceps and squeezed, hard as he could. "Sam—Sammy. You are getting better, of course you are. This—this thing, it's not like, you know, a curse. This was something in your head. like…PTSD, you know? And that takes time. You're gonna have days that aren’t so hot. But it's okay. Because you really are getting better. Right?" he moved his grip from Sam's arms to his face, tilted his head down so that they were eye to eye. Sam looked like a beat-up little puppy; he had that lip thing going on that made him look like he was five. But his eyes were clear and focused on Dean and he nodded when Dean repeated, _"Right?"_

Dean hands loosened their hold, he slid them down Sam's cheeks, down until he was cradling the back of Sam's neck. Sam's eyes dropped shut and he let out a shaky little sigh. "Right," Sam said.

Dean let go, stepped back, even though it felt—wrong, like his fingers missed his brother and wanted to be on his skin again. He shook his head. He was really turning into some kind of sap. 

Sam was better, really better. Still…"I was going to pick up some part-time work at the hardware place but…maybe I shouldn't." 

"Dean, no. Take it, if that's what you want. Wait—do we need to work? I can get a job, I can work—"

"Hey, chill. We've got money; we're fine, thanks to Frank. But when we leave," he said, and Sam's head whipped up—he stared at Dean, lips pulled tight. "Dude, Sam, we're not…we have to leave some time, right? Not like, now's not the time. But when we do, when we leave here, we're going to need that money to—"

"Spend on ammo?"

"Yahtze."

Sam side-eyed him but he was grinning, at least a little. Dean smiled back. Sam went back to the stove and messed around with whatever he was making. After a few minutes, he dropped a serving bowl on the table and said, "So, you're working in hardware heaven, hunh? That's like giving a kid keys a candy shop."

"What? Dude, not true," he said, ignoring Sam's snort. "I got plenty of self-control. Hey, I'm starting tomorrow—wanna run an errand for me?"

"Can't wait. Here, eat." He set out a couple of shallow bowls with it, tossed a couple of spoons on the table and stuck a ladle in the big bowl. Dean grabbed it and slopped some of whatever was in the serving bowl into his. 

"What is this?"

"Hmm," Sam said, swirling his spoon around in his dish. "A little of this, a little of that. Some peas and some corn and what was left of that chicken from the other day. And an egg. Broke the ramen into bits and boiled everything together along with some of those herbs from the garden. The edible ones, don't worry."

"Hunh." Dean rolled the broth around his mouth, considering. "Not bad. Pretty good, as a matter of fact."

Sam shrugged. "Used to make it a lot, way back when. When I was doing that stretch upstate." 

Dean laughed so hard, he choked on a noodle and Sam declared it instant karma.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Sam_ **

Sam strolled into Howard's shop, not much interested in the surroundings because it was motors and oil and gasoline, and while the smell went right to the primitive part of his brain that warbled _home,_ the mechanics and engineering bits bored him stupid. There was a reason why Dean called the Impala _'Baby',_ and he called it _'the car'._

Howard was leaning against a long counter, looking bored; even so, Sam could tell he was sizing him up. Sam did a double take—the guy looked more like Dean's brother than he did. Fuck….

"You here for…" the guy glanced over at a pink card, skewered on a long nail hammered into a block of wood, "Dean Anderson? Are you Yeti?"

"Ye— _Sam,_ Sam Smith. I'm here to pick up the asshole's mower." Sam couldn't help staring. He'd thought at first the guy was some aging, eyeliner-wearing douche, but closer to the counter, Sam saw that it wasn't eyeliner—he just had really long, really dark, eyelashes. Longer and darker than Dean's, and his eyes were a shade or two greener. The guy had amazing DNA, for sure.

Howard went around the counter and picked out an ugly, pea-green mower parked in a line of mowers set in front of the shop's old-fashioned bay window. Sam thought it was kind of an odd, the way the window was sort of homey and cheerful with its little half-curtains made of lace—at least in contrast to the practical and ugly the rest of the shop was. It looked like a girlfriend or wife's hand at work. He smirked. Pussy-whipped, to quote his somewhat misogynistic brother. 

Howard pushed the ugly mower in front of Sam, who, seeing it closer now, could only stare in disbelief. "He paid to get…this… _this_ fixed?"

Howard just smiled sweetly. "That'll be sixty. Parts and labor, and," he said to Sam's raised eyebrows, "you need to price mowers if you think that's a lot."

"I leave that shit to Dean," Sam muttered.

"I'm sure you do," Howard said, a disturbingly familiar and increasingly irritating smirk on his face. 

Sam passed his credit card over with an ill grace, then plucked the receipt from Howard's fingers—crammed it in his pocket. He rolled the mower out to the truck with a curt, "See ya."

Driving back home, he couldn't come up with a single reason why he'd been such a rude dick to a total stranger.

* * *

Sam was sitting—slumped, really—on the old Coleman cooler, head hanging down and his hair dripping with sweat, as wet as if he'd stepped out of the shower. It was hot, _stupidly_ hot, and between Dean and himself, they'd only done a quarter of the yard. He'd tried using the old push mower that Dean had used on the front yard, but the grass tangled in the blades and wheels. He'd had enough of that shit, and was taking a well deserved break. He wiped at his face with an already wet shirt tail. Swore only a day or two ago he'd fallen asleep, comfortable and dry, only to wake up to a whole new world— _Summer._ It was a horrible, sticky, humid world. 

Fidus, the non-loyal dog, lolled in the kitchen doorway, letting the fan blow cool air on him. Sam swore the dog was laughing at them. He guessed that proved the dog wasn't as dumb as they were….

 

Dean was guiding the new/old mower around the sheds and outbuildings, leaving a ragged sort of patchwork pattern of cut grass. Mowing and sweating, sweating and mowing, dragging the thing through grass almost too high to cut, detouring around surprise rusted garden implements.

Sam couldn’t remember when his brother had last looked so worn out—it was obvious that Dean was totally done. He'd lost his shirt a while ago, was absolutely dripping wet, just _soaking_ his jeans, wet all down the crack of his ass and the waistband; there were splotches of wet on his thighs and his calves. His hair was flattened to his head, and whatever sweat didn't get soaked up by his hair, he was blinking out of his eyes, cursing softly to himself.

 _He should be disgusting,_ Sam thought. Filthy, covered with bits of grass and flecks of dirt gone to mud though mixing with his sweat. The man was stinking and dirty and he should be turning Sam's stomach. Instead, Sam watched him from his perch on the cooler and god; he couldn’t even pretend that he wasn't hard as granite just from the sight of Dean.

Sam groaned pitifully. Shit, he was one second from grabbing a handful of ice and dumping it down his pants. He seriously would, if he wasn't afraid that if he touched himself in any kind of way, he'd come on the spot. 

The roar of the mower died, and Dean cursed, kicking at it. "We need a fucking riding mower, damn it."

"No. They cost too much and you'd just hurt yourself—or me," Sam said, pretending to be the voice of reason. He quickly balled up his over-shirt and dropped it in his lap…because it was too hot to wear two shirts, yes. Coincidently, he took a moment to review in his mind the specific way to dismember a ghoul. After a minute or two, he relaxed. Everywhere. 

He realized also, just how soaked his t-shirt was and groaned in disgust. He smelled like a junior high gym died in his armpits.

"Such a buzzkill." Dean had turned away from the mower to face Sam, skimming sweat from his chest with the edge of his hand liked he'd just climbed out of a pool. He yanked the soaking waist band of his pants away from his body, frowning, "This is damn gross, I feel like I just climbed out of a sweat shower."

"Ugh." Sam laughed a little at Dean's outrage, Dean flipped him off, but Sam thought he caught Dean's eyes skating over him…Sam flexed a little, subtly, just to see if he was hallu—seeing things. 

Dean turned back to the mower like he was totally disinterested, but Sam was forty percent sure that Dean had just eyed him. Sam took advantage of Dean not looking to adjust himself, trying to get his dick to behave...

"Well then, how about we rent a riding mower? I'm telling ya, Sam, we didn’t face down demons and angels and whatever else nasty shit the universe flings at us, to die in the back yard of some— _Craftsman's cottage_ or what-the-fuck-ever. We have to do this shit, but there's no reason it can’t be fun."

"I guess it couldn't hurt, at that." Sam grunted as he suddenly hit the grass and rolled to his knees. "Hey! Quit it, asshole."

His damn reflexes were shot—proved by his sneaky ass brother creeping up to shove him off the cooler easily. Dean flung up the lid and rooted around in the chest, sloshing icy water everywhere, before coming up with a Pepsi and letting out a triumphant hoot. Sam was just about to insist Dean drink water, not carbonated sugar, when he leaned over him and said, "You should take your stuff off, dude."

 _"What?"_ Sam was assaulted by the instant, painful, lightning bolt of lust that skewered him at Dean's words. It hit him so hard, he winced. 

"I said, go on and take your shirt off, dude." Dean thankfully misinterpreted Sam's wince and slapped him hard in the middle of his chest. "I've seen it all before, Prude-o. Too many damn times, if you ask me."

"Dean," Sam snapped but truth to tell, that slap went a long way to killing any possible sibling-inappropriate boners…he whipped his t-shirt off and dropped it behind the cooler—when he stood again, Dean was staring down the north-forty, tips of his ears flaming a bright red, determinedly drinking his Pepsi. 

_Was he…?_ Sam looked at his brother thoughtfully, but Dean just kept sucking on that bottle like he was being paid for it. Fucking asshole gorgeous bastard. People would pay to watch him do that, Sam thought, scowling. Until it occurred to him… _he_ got to watch it for free, and he smiled.

"You ready to call it a day?" Dean asked, squinting down the length of the raggedly-cut lawn. 

"Oh, god yes. I was just waiting for you to crack," he said and Dean laughed. Dean gathered their empties as Sam dumped the water out of the cooler.

Right before he tossed the empties into the recycling bucket, Dean said, "You're looking good again, Sam. Healthier. Filled out like you were before…before all this stuff. I'm glad. I missed you looking, y'know. Kinda happy..." he trailed off like he was embarrassed by what he'd said, like he was waiting for Sam to give him shit. There was no way in heaven or hell Sam could have teased him at the moment. He made himself fucking busy right quick, head bent over the cooler, hiding behind his hair like he'd do when he was a kid. He wiped his wet cheeks, thankful for the sweat as an excuse for it.

* * *

Shelly came by right before they put the mowers away, and Sam managed to be very nice to her. 

"What are you guys up to—" she stopped, and gaped at the haphazardly shorn back yard. "Seriously?" She laughed. "What're you, Superman? You can't do that lawn with…" she peered at the mower Dean was leaning on. "…your grand-dad's mower and. _Whoa—"_ She gaped at Sam, who was busy trying to drag the push mower towards the shed. 

"I was about to say you can’t do that mess with a push mower, but please do. Carry on, boys."

She sat and smiled at them—leered actually. Sam caught Dean looking him over as well. It felt again like that different, heated gaze Dean'd turned on him earlier, and he struggled not to blush.

"So you guys want to run over to Iron Horse later on tonight? My sister-in-law was supposed to come out with me, but the kids wore her out and I really need to get the hell out of that house for a while."

Dean looked somewhat guilty, but shrugged. "Sure…Sam?"

He thought about it…Iron Horse was pretty much the same kind of dive that they'd frequented since he was fifteen…it might be tolerable. Plus, Dean and he hadn't done anything together that didn't involve backbreaking labor in what felt like forever. "Yeah, okay," Sam said, not in the least motivated by any desire to make sure Dean and Shelly didn't make up, or have make up/break-up _sex_ or—he could really use a drink.

* * *

The Iron Horse was a typical small town bar—a few tables lined the edges of a tiny dance floor, a few booths butted up along the rear wall, facing the bar. The lighting was dim, but dim in a cozy way, not in a _'guess who you're taking home'_ kind of way. The place had obviously been there a long time—long enough to soak up the smell of wood wax, booze, hot grease, and cigarette smoke, despite the handwritten signs declaring _no smoking_ duct taped to the bathroom doors. 

Sam shook his head. People never wanted to do what was good for them….

Shelly led them to the farthest booth, one that was somewhat out of traffic. The high booth backs gave them a little privacy, the little sconce screwed into the wall at the end of the table cast enough light that everyone looked good—of course, every woman there stared at Dean like he was the last piece of pie on the plate. Sam knew exactly what they saw—the dim light turning Dean's hair to polished bronze, his eyes forest green…his lips looked even fuller and the bastard was making them redder by licking and biting at them, and why the fuck was he doing that?

Sam whined in his throat, keeping it to himself. Dean was driving him crazy—had been driving him nuts all day. A few stray freckles dotted Dean's lower lip, pale and barely seen in daylight but this light just made them glow. He wanted to touch every one of them with his tongue, trace them like a connect-the-dot—

 _"Damn—_ who wants a beer?" Sam lurched to his feet. "Drink? Fries—something?" he asked and hoped his desperation wasn't noticeable.

"Are you okay, Sammy?" Dean really looked worried. Sam grimaced; he must look like he was getting singing telegrams from Lucifer again. 

"Oh, yeah, no, I'm just hungry. We missed dinner. Thirsty, too."

"I know; my lips are so dry, they feel like they’re peeling off my face. From working out in the sun, I guess…" He glanced at Shelly and gave her a leer. "Wanna help me out with that?"

She gave him a flat, _supremely_ un-amused look. "Yeah, I don’t think so." She looked at Sam. "I'm gonna get us some beers, a basket of fries—sound good?"

Sam nodded and watched her walk off before reaching across the table and plucking his fingers against Dean's forehead, hard enough to leave a red mark. "God, that was _stupid,_ even for you. What were you thinking?"

Dean looked vaguely panicked. "I don’t know? Why do I do shit like that? That was stupid. I just…" he looked away from Sam. "Something was on my mind and I just…looking for an easy way out," he muttered.

He refused to look at Sam again until Shelly came back, dragging someone Sam recognized, and judging from the smile on Dean's face, a welcome someone.

"Look who I found, guys—let me introduce a good buddy—this is Howard—"

"I know," Dean said. "We met." He rose a bit and took the hand Howard offered. "Good to see ya, man. Mower's running like aces."

"Oh my god," Shelly crowed and dropped a couple of baskets of fries on the table. "He's the reason you have that stupid mower!"

Sam sat back and sighed. _Great. More friends of Dean…lovely._

* * *

One beer became many, hamburgers came next, shots joined the beers, and it was like a party, with Sam the unwilling guest. It was bad enough that Dean sat with his arm around Shelly—and didn't that piss Sam off? Hadn't Dean acknowledged that flirting with Shelly was a stupid-ass idea? Still, Shelly _was_ funny as hell and smart, too…she was fucking gorgeous and definitely attractive—okay, you'd have to be blind not to get it, Sam thought. He couldn’t hold that against her—or Dean. And now there was Howard as well, who was very obviously flirting with Dean despite Dean being all over Shelly. And what the fuck— Dean was flirting back. 

Sam got up to head towards the bar; he needed a break from Dean. He leaned over and shouted his order for another beer, just to have a reason for walking away. He was leaning against the wood, trying to clear his mind when his back tingled—training and instinct took over, making him dodge slightly sidewise, and Howard's hand landed on his arm instead of his shoulder. Sam quelled the urge to drive his elbow backwards… _civilians,_ he thought grumpily. 

"Hey there, stand down, guy," Howard said and dropped his hand. "Sorry about that—I should have known better." 

Sam narrowed his eyes at Howard and Howard jerked his chin at Shelly. "She might have let a thing or two slip," Howard said with a smile, not looking apologetic in the slightest. 

"S'okay," Sam said and let it ride. Wasn't like Howard or Shelly were completely wrong….

"Man, I need a smoke; care to come out and keep me company for few minutes?" 

Sam considered Howard's request and decided, why not? More than likely, the guy was asking him outside so he could grill him about Dean. In fact, he was sure of it, because Dean with his total, clueless, willingness to flirt with anything with a pulse was sending out mixed signals—as usual. This way, Sam could shoot Howard down for Dean and spare everyone a bit of awkwardness. Sam sighed. He could read his stupid brother like a book, and it was obvious he already thought of Howard as an okay guy. He didn't want Dean to be disappointed when Howard hit on him with serious intent. 

 

**_Dean_ **

Dean watched Sam leave with Howard, a frown crinkling the corners of his eyes and deepening the lines bracketing his mouth. He wasn't sure about that, he didn’t know Howard, not like he should if Sam was out of his sight with the man. Shel nudged him.

"Looks like Howard and Sam are getting along."

"Yeah…wait, whatya mean getting along?" 

Dean stared so intently at the doorway that Shel looked that way as well. Dean felt his cheeks heat—he was a little embarrassed to be caught out, not that he should be. Shel slid another beer towards him and took a deep pull at her own before saying, "Howard's been known to be opportunistic…he's a generous kind of guy. Sharing." She smiled into her glass and Dean nudged her to get her attention back, maybe a shade harder than he had to.

"Meaning?" he asked.

"Just what you think I mean," she said, frowning and rubbing her arm. "Dick."

 _Really? What the ever-loving hell--_ "Is _everyone_ in this town gay?" Dean snarled.

"Noooo," Shelly drawled, giving Dean a look. She drew his glass back towards herself. "There's Sam, The Boys—" Dean nodded, Donnie and Ford, they were pretty obvious, but Howard…

"—you and Howard are bi, thank you very much, and I haven't polled the _rest_ of the town, excuse me. Dean, homophobic is a stupid look on you, considering." She rolled her eyes—hard.

"I'm not g—I'm not homopho—damn it. Stop fucking up my life, Shel, shit."

Shelly immediately flushed. "Okay, you're right, Dean. I'm sorry, I really am—"

"No, no, I didn't mean it that way, in fact, I don't mean it at all, it's just. Wow. Strange things've been happening to me since we came here. Life took kind of a hinky turn, y'know?"

She played with her drink, overlapping the wet circles on the table top, seemed to gather herself before speaking. "Look…I've told you once, and I'm telling you again…Sam's unhappy. Because of you."

Dean shook his head hard. "You don't understand, this whole thing, you _can’t_ understand." 

"Okay," she shrugged. "Well, then someone who _does_ understand better figure it out. Wanna dance?"

"Hell no!''

"How did I know that?" she grinned and winked before jumping up to pull a willing body to the tiny dance floor. 

Dean watched her dance for a bit, traded off between that and watching the door…where the hell was Sam? Dean glanced down at his watch. He'd been gone a little longer than he should be. What the hell could he possibly be talking to Howard about? Mowers? Toaster ovens? 

He was still thinking when Shel came back, flushed and slightly sweaty. His dick gave a nostalgic lurch…couldn't help it. Sex with Shel had never been the issue. It was damn good and he missed it. Missed her, the way she smiled. She had a wicked grin, and the way she threw her head back and laughed with her whole body....

"Yo, you with me?"

"Damn, sorry, I just kinda…yeah, I should probably cut myself off while I can still walk," he said, but tipped his glass back anyway.

"Oh please, you're barely buzzed. Okay, maybe a little," she said when Dean missed his mouth at the next sip. "Where's your boy, he's still not back?" She asked, and her eyebrows climbed towards her hairline. "I thought Sam was like, hermetically sealed to you."

"Shudup. What? Hermetic—I need to check on him," he said and stumbled upright. He glanced at Shel, waiting for her to mock him, but she looked just as serious as Dean felt. 

"G'wan, I'm just gonna hang out here for a while. And hey, Dean—I'm sorry; I didn’t really give this a lot of thought. Go ahead, you take him home, and tell him I said good night, okay?"

Funny how, now that he was dancing around the subject of Sam, and wanting…okay, wanting something he wasn't sure of but centered on Sam, he understood Shelly better than before. "Thanks, Shel, for being so understanding, and for, y'know, getting it." 

She waved him off and Dean headed for the doors. Sam needed him; he could feel it, digging under his skin.

 

**_Sam_ **

"So…Dean's your…what? Friend? Cousin?"

They were walking across the gravel parking lot, to the side where Howard had parked his truck, telling Sam he'd left his cigarettes in the glove compartment. 

It took a few seconds for Sam's sluggish brain to process Howard's question. "I—hunh? He's my…he's my…" Sam stopped, his forehead bunched like corduroy as he thought— _What *is* Dean to me?_ Well, he was…everything. And none of anyone's business.

They reached the truck. It looked like a GMC Sierra, a newer model. It reminded him of his dad's truck. Sam felt a flutter of nostalgia, and a faint brush of grief that he quickly forced away. 

Howard collected his cigarettes and Sam followed him around to the back of the truck. They sat on the tail gate as Howard lit up, slid the cigarette between his lips, rolled it until it landed snugly in the corner of his mouth. He cut a narrow-eyed look at Sam. "I ask, because I don't want to step on anyone's toes. Dean, he's hard as hell to read, y'know?"

Sam snorted—no argument there—it was hard even for him sometimes.

"Yeah," Howard went on, "so…I guess what I'm asking is, are you guys together?"

Sam blinked, he swallowed once or twice. "What?"

"Wow, you're a real expressive guy, you know? Very verbal, yak-yak-yak."

He had to laugh—it felt kind of…good, so he laughed again. "Yeah, well…you should have caught me a few years ago." He grinned; it faltered and faded at the look in Howard's eyes. 

"Yeah," Howard said. "I would have liked that, catching you. You're an interesting guy, Sam—not to mention smoking hot." 

_"Me?_ I look like five miles of fucked up road-- _hot."_ He shook his head, staring at the parking lot. "And Dean…he's not." Sam shrugged. "Not gay. Whatever."

"Hmm." Howard leaned back against the truck he'd claimed as his—coincidently parked next to Dean's baby. "And you? Where do you fall on the scale?" he asked with a little smile. 

"Me? I'm not. Or maybe, slightly, not one hundred per cent straight. There have been times. I've been curious, times I've—but this isn't about me, it's about my—about Dean, right?"

Howard frowned at Sam; he dropped the butt to the gravel and ground it out. "Wow; I must be way the hell out of practice. It's about _you,_ Yeti. I was wondering if you were…wanted to get drinks. Okay, not drinks. _Damn it,_ Sam, help me out here, man."

"Oh. Oh! Me? Hah—me? Wow, I thought you were eyeing Dean. Everyone eyes Dean. Dean's like—fucking sunrise, fucking…too much is what he is."

"That he is. And I can see I'm too late. You are definitely not free and I'm definitely not going to be that guy." Howard threw an arm over Sam's shoulder and pulled him close. Sam shivered. Howard felt like Dean, was built like him—could be Dean's fucking brother. It wouldn’t hurt, and Howard wanted it and it was probably the closest Sam would ever come…and it wouldn’t _hurt_ anyone. It'd be perfectly okay…

He listed towards Howard, more than willing to throw all his decisions in Alcohol's lap. Howard's hands came up to cup Sam's face and Sam shivered harder, closed his eyes as the tension bled out of him. He could do this, he could let go. Soft, full lips brushed his, and it sent a jolt right to Sam's dick. Until they moved on to stop, pressed softly to his cheek, and thumbs stroked over his cheekbones like…fuck. Soft, tender, and in no way like a lover's. Even fucked up as he was, Sam could feel the difference. 

Howard leaned his forehead against Sam's. "Man, you’re tempting, but like I said—not that guy. I'm going on home, where I'm going take a nice, hot, shower, have another beer and crash. Take care, man. I know I'll see ya around, because your partner's coming back to the shop to get a riding mower."

"Dean said that?"

"Nah—but I know your place, and you'd need like, fifteen teens with mowers to do that back piece of yours."

Sam laughed, and Howard slapped him on the shoulder and gently shoved him off his truck. He drove off with a wink, and a wave.

Sam moved over to the Impala and slid his ass up on the hood. He found himself smiling fondly, until the door to the bar slammed open and Dean came stomping out. 

Without a girl at least, so maybe the rest of the night wasn't going to suck as hard as he'd thought it was going to.

"Sam, what the fuck, what've you been doing—" Dean stopped and sharpened all over, like a Doberman scenting trouble. "What's wrong? Did that Howard guy do something to you? Say something to you?"

"No, shut up, sit down."

Dean sat. "What's up? Why didn’t you come back in?"

"Didn’t want to watch you and Shel do that dance again."

"Shit, you know I don't dance." Sam huffed and elbowed Dean. "Guess you didn’t mean that kind of dance," he laughed. 

They sat quietly on the hood for a bit, both of them a little toasted and kind of tired from the afternoon's workout, and neither bothered much when they leaned slowly into each other, sort of a controlled topple into each other's space that used to be so familiar. 

Sam's mouth grazed Dean's temple and his breath caught…he inhaled, stealthily at first but then he just pressed his nose right at Dean's hairline and sniffed like he was…was…pastry, something good, delicious to eat…

Dean shivered and arched back into Sam, who took it as invitation—he bit down gently on the edge of Dean's jaw, ran his tongue over his stubbled jaw line, right on into the dimpled corner of his mouth, licking small, soft circles, "Let me, please," he whispered, come on….

Dean's head dropped back, he turned slightly so that Sam found himself licking over the full curve of Dean's bottom lip—seemed like reflex, the way Dean opened, and Sam shuddered so hard, it felt like he'd come. This…this was it, this was what he'd been moving towards since…he'd say spring, but that was a lie, now that he'd given himself to it, Sam knew, this had been a thing way before this spring. 

Heat from the car's hood warmed his hip and leg and the palm of one hand, the other was wrapped around Dean's neck, trying to keep him in one spot—and then, he realized with shock that Dean was trying to pull away. 

"Sam, stop, no, man, stop. We can't. This isn't a good thing we're heading into, it’s the very _worst_ thing we could do."

"Are you worried about the incest thing, because, man—what we've done—what _I've_ done, incest is like the least of my worries." Sam laughed, shakily. "Dude, we're either so freaking boned, we're going right back to where they pulled us out of, or we have a permanent pass for—for anything short of cold-blooded murder, dude. Either way Dean…this is our life, man. We're in this place, together, and we could be safe—we know we can be safe. And you're you and I'm me, and I've wanted this—you—for so long, you don't even know Dean, you don’t even know—" Sam knew he was babbling, fucking knew he was losing Dean—knew he'd lost by the look in Dean's eyes.

Dean had managed to slide himself towards the opposite edge of the hood and hung there, feet on the bumper and his arms up and cradling—hiding—his head. "Shit, Sam. That's not why I what I mean. I don’t give a shit about that—hell, that'd be the least of the fucked up things I've done in my life, too. It's…you and me, we're all we have. No one else will ever fill the empty places we have—"

 _"That's_ what I'm sayin'—"

"Sam! _Listen_ to me! I'm trying to tell you man, if we fuck this up, we have nothing, nothing left, don’t you get it? Why would we want to risk everything on a maybe? Fuck, I couldn't take it. This thing, you act like it's a damn baga candy and all you gotta do is stick your hand in and…and it's _not._ Jesus. Can't you see what could happen? Can't you see the consequences?"

Sam stared at Dean openmouthed, horrified—he wanted to hit Dean— _fuck,_ he wanted to punch him right in his gleaming, woe-is me eyes. "Bastard, he hissed. "You think this is me, what—blowing off steam? This is me being horny and going after a sure thing or something? Well, _fuck_ you Dean. If that was all it was, I've got options. I feel sorry for you that you don’t know what love is, that you can't recognize it."

"Oh fuck you too, Sam, you self-righteous, selfish bitch. The whole fucking world revolves around you, don't it? I don't now what love is? How about, it's giving up the last bit of yourself so that the one you love can keep on living? How about sacrificing everything over and over and being glad to do it, if it means one more minute of comfort, of safety, of _life,_ for the one you love?"

"You—you—I _never_ asked you to do those things!"

"Of _course_ not. I couldn't help doing it, because _I love you,_ asshole. I like, really couldn't stop myself because if there was a chance that you'd make it out all right, that you'd have some kind of happiness, than...sweet. I did what I did because, because, that's _what you do._

He reached out and cupped Sam's face like Howard had. Sam closed his eyes briefly. Dean could say what he wanted to, but Sam knew, just by his touch, Sam _knew._

Dean said, quietly, "Sam, it's too risky. But yeah…if there was a real choice, I'd love you like that, too, the way you want."

He shifted, slowly leaning closer, until their lips met and it was the sweetest, saddest kiss Sam had ever had.


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

After that night, nothing was said, not really…nothing in words, anyway. Sam knew Dean too well. He knew Dean was imploding—doing his best to pretend that nothing had been said between the two of them, like he'd never even practically told Sam he loved him like Sam loved him but he just wasn't going to give in to it. Fuck, like they were in danger of breaking up and acting like thirteen year old girls afterwards…

Sam huffed. It pissed him off that he could see Dean's point—no, Dean's _fear_ of what could happen if, if things went south which they _wouldn't._ He understood Dean's worry. But if Dean would just admit that they belonged together…it almost wasn't a choice. 

His brother's name was written on every single bone in his body, every one. _Dean_ etched deep, over and over, right down to the tiny bones of his ears…every, every, every, every.…

Sam shook his head, hard. Arguing with Dean had a tendency to do that, to knock him a little off track. He closed his eyes and took deep, settling breaths. He was not going to fall to pieces because of Dean.

* * *

Sam stewed silently for a few days, not speaking, avoiding his brother—cutting him with a look or a word if he couldn’t avoid him…stupid, really. All he managed to do was make himself miserable and upset the dog, who knew something bad was going on but not what. When it sank in what was happening, just how stupid he was being, Sam forced himself to let go. He was an adult; he prided himself on being a mature, responsible adult, and it was on him to act like it. Besides, it was really upsetting Fidus. The poor dog had taken to entering and leaving rooms by slinking all along the baseboards until he got to a doorway, eyeing them both like they were crazy before sprinting off.

They _were_ a little bit crazy.

Days passed, and after a while, Dean's insistently upbeat attitude scraped the jagged edges of Sam's upset away. His unrelenting _brotherliness_ finally scoured Sam's despair to a point that he could stand in a room with his brother and not feel much of anything, at all.

* * *

They were halfway through summer, and they finally had the whole lawn neat and tidy again, with the help of a riding mower Howard rented out to Dean. Despite what Howard thought, he didn’t see Sam at his shop again, because Sam removed himself from that part of the lawn work.

He kept their garden neat and weed free, he helped Dean cart away cuttings and rubbish and kept him from killing gophers, but that was it. Sam found himself retreating more and more frequently into the cool shadows of the house. With the shades drawn and the fans working, it was almost cozy…it was definitely quiet and there weren't any temptations to derail his concentration. He researched, looking for anything connected with their last—their _current_ case. He made copious, detailed, illustrated notes. He found himself thinking a lot about heaven and hell and politics. He thought about signs, portents--destiny. He was even reading again, stories he'd loved when he'd thought there was still a chance for him. It was nice, and it worked well to keep him from thinking about anything counterproductive. 

Dean gave him some time alone before he decided enough was enough—far past the time Sam figured Dean could stand. He forced Sam out of his comfortable, quiet cocoon, forced him to give up ignoring Dean because Dean rode right over his silence like an Acme steamroller. Just kept on talking to him: about Castiel's progress, about Frank's speculations, about the possibility that Meg planned to bone them hard—the usual. 

He also talked about Howard, and The Boys, about Shelly and her family, not to mention other neighbors Sam had just the vaguest knowledge of.

Through it all, Sam was polite, responding when he thought he should. He expressed polite surprise that the recipe Dean picked up from Donnie—some chicken-curry thing—turned out to be good, complimented him quietly. He politely responded to Dean's comments about Frank's speculation. He shared research that dovetailed with Frank's theories, shooting down stuff he figured was just too out there, even for the Leviathan conspiracy, as if everything was normal or what passed for normal for them…

They talked about Castiel easier than they'd had before—it was a place they could safely release a little emotion without bringing up the elephant in the corner.

Sam hoped that Cas would continue to get better. In his heart, he'd forgiven him, something he'd also found a little easier to do these days—certainly a lot easier than to forgive his stupid, cold-hearted, son of a bastard, ignorant-ass, mean, clueless, fucker of a brother….

* * *

Sam was fairly content to spend his days weeding, or researching or reading. When he wasn't doing that, he stayed in his room and slept. Until the day came when he was _done,_ he couldn't pretend that he was fine, he couldn't sleep another day away, he couldn't avoid life anymore.

He showered and dressed himself in a shirt that had buttons, and pants that had an actual zipper, and no elastic around the cuffs. He combed his hair and he came down to dinner and afterwards, he even asked Dean if he felt up to heading out to Iron Horse with him. 

Dean looked so pathetically happy about that, that Sam had a very vivid, lightning-quick fantasy in which he leaped over the table and slapped the living fuck out of Dean. It was deeply satisfying, and he imagined it so hard and true that he almost thought it had really happened. He took a shaky breath and tried to relax. It felt too much of when Lucifer had romped through his head daily and he'd had an impossible time telling what was real from what wasn't….

He smiled back at Dean, as honestly as he could, and life just…went on from there.

* * *

He was bringing in groceries up the walk and almost tripped over Panda, a mountain of fur spread out over the sidewalk. Fidus was staring at the other dog from the shade of the porch, a puzzled look plain on his face. Sam understood perfectly. It was hot as hell on the pavement—what was wrong with that dog?

Buddy was sitting on the porch with Fidus, sensibly sitting in the shade. Sprawled in Dean's chair as a matter of fact, looking like he belonged there, and reading the book Sam had left on a sidetable. "Ey, Sam, hope you don’t mind. You left it on the table up there—it's really good."

Sam felt a momentary twinge of annoyance that Buddy had lost his place, but it wasn't like he hadn't read The Hobbit a dozen times or more…"Nah, I don’t mind…is Dean around?"

"Out back with Aunt Shel, I think they're doing somethin' in the garden."

"I'll bet," Sam muttered between clenched teeth. He made his way up the stairs, bags hanging off of his arms, one hand fishing around in his pocket. "Don’t help me kid," he growled, and Buddy nodded. 

"Okay," he muttered, obviously not in the least aware of what Sam had said. Despite himself, Sam smiled...he'd been kind of a little shit himself at that age. Used to drive Dean crazy.

"Hi, Sam. How'd it go, food shopping?"

 _Shit._ Speak of the--the--Dean. He'd hoped to get in the house and haul his ass upstairs before Dean realized he was home again. He stopped half way through the doorway, counted a beat, took a mental breath, and smiled wide. "It went well. I picked up a pack of chops, thought we could do them on the grill. They had pies on sale, too—I got cherry," Sam said and almost winced—waited for whatever stupid-ass joke Dean was sure to come up with.

"Grilling, yeah, that sounds like a good idea. And thanks for picking up a pie," Dean said, "that was really nice of you."

"Humpf." It kind of pissed Sam off that Dean didn't go for the cheap joke that he would have any other time. He gritted his teeth and gave Dean a sharp nod, and then stood in the doorway, frozen for some reason, bags hanging off of his arms like lumpy plastic fruit.

"Oh for god's sake," Shelly murmured, and pushed Dean aside. She grabbed a few bags from Sam and nudged him inside, followed him into the kitchen. "Dean and I were talking about a cookout for the fourth."

Sam put the bags on the counter and looked over his shoulder. "The forth? He was confused. "What does that mean…oh." It hit him that she meant the fourth of July. It was July already…?

"Yeah, Fourth of July? Barbecue time, hot dogs and potato salad? Independence Day and sparklers?"

"Fireworks." Dean grinned at him, a grin so big it turned his eyes into narrow green slits and his tongue peeked between his teeth. "We like fireworks, don’t we, Sammy?" 

Sam almost—almost—melted. He swayed towards Dean, his heartbeat picked up…he blinked, and took a net sack of potatoes out of a bag. "I don’t think you're allowed to set off fireworks at home, Dean. It's dangerous." He looked him in the eye. "It would be irresponsible." Sam felt a smidge of guilt at the way Dean's face fell and the light died in his eyes, so he looked away and fiercely concentrated on making sure the potatoes didn't roll off the counter.

"I guess you're right," he heard his brother say. He turned around. Dean was smiling again, the bastard—fucking little smile, just like the one he'd given Sam when they'd had to abandon a kitten Sam had found, the way he'd smiled when Sam asked him why they couldn't ever stay in one place…his eyes and nose burnt and he fumbled the potatoes.

Shelly made a little, dry noise, stepped up and gently eased the bag out of Sam's hand. She looked from Sam to his brother. "How about we let me handle the invites, okay?"

 

**_Dean_ **

The barbeque was chugging merrily along, had been all afternoon. Now it was heading on towards early evening, and it showed no signs of slowing down. There were more people there than he knew, but that was cool. It was just weird that half the folks there were under the impression that Shel was his girl, and the other half thought that Sam and him were an item. A couple of hours into it, he realized that he was only correcting the people who asked about him and Shel. 

The neighbors thinking that him and Sam were a couple didn't faze him much. It didn't bother him having people think he was gay—fuck, if he got twisted every time that happened—

The "morality" of the situation didn't bother him either. He'd stopped worrying about shit like that way back when, 'round about the time he'd gotten his ass kicked by Carrie Town's dad, a fine, upstanding citizen who wanted to drive home the point that no welfare-sucking, white trash piece of shit was ever getting close to his daughter. Joke was on him, they couldn't have gotten any welfare if they'd wanted to. 

He did get that cherry though….

Yeah, the incest didn't faze him much. Hell, him and Sam were both frontline witnesses to the unbelievable kinds of sick shit everyday humans dealt each other. And like Sam said, there was the shit they'd done themselves…morality wasn't a problem. And it wasn't even this thing blowing up in their faces that stopped him. Sam would stay if it did, probably. In fact, he was close to certain Sam wouldn’t leave anymore for anything, that he'd keep on working with him like everything was okay. The kid was a stubborn fuck, and when he made up his mind, bam. That was it. 

Dean had seen it in his eyes—Sam had made up his mind about the two of them. How, why, he didn’t know. Shit, he'd never let himself think about this kind of thing…not since he was a kid. He'd been so young that he'd had no idea what love was—thought it was all admiring glances and dreaming about someone's smile—not the hellhole of half-truths and outright lies and resentment it really was. 

He hadn't thought about it. Not since the time that Sam had left their life.

Nope, wasn't _Sam_ he was worried about. It was _himself._ He wasn't sure if he could live with himself, live _at all…_ if it went bad. Sam was the brave one. Sam had strength that Dean didn’t, not in that regard. Sammy would manage okay if it failed, but Dean knew he'd go down in flames and never get up again. He shook those thoughts away, he had coolers to fill with ice, and burgers to grill, and no time to hang around moping like a—a—emo…thing that moped. Whatever.

* * *

Somewhere during the day, Shel's brother and Donnie had edged him away from the grill and sent him to sit, with a bottle of beer and a skewer of glazed shrimp and pineapple—mostly because he'd argued that a BBQ meant hot dogs and hamburgers, not froo-froo junk on a stick. Stuff on a stick should be made of _meat_ and covered with a sweet, sticky glaze, or maybe sauce hot enough to burn a hole through the table if it dripped… he had to admit though, this stuff wasn't bad.

"Lord grant Sam strength," Donnie had said fervently before sending Dean off to sit with the old guys under the umbrellas: George the vet, Ford, who turned out to be a retired cop, and Frankie, a construction worker, not exactly an old guy, but he was allowed to join the club because he'd done a tour overseas.  
Dean relaxed. He sat with his elbows on the table, a beer cradled between his hands, grinning when they joked, nodding when they shared a rough patch in their tours. He felt like he fit in with these guys, more than he'd ever felt with almost any hunters he'd known; he appreciated their respect for his silence. Though somewhere along the way, he found out that apparently he and Sam were Special Ops, or were part of some super-secret undercover unit, possibly assassins…apparently the tattoos lit up everyone's imaginations. 

He'd finished a few beers and worked his way through a couple of plates of ribs and beans before he noticed that the afternoon had faded towards deep evening. The back yard was under that kind of summer evening light, where everything was washed a fairytale gold. George's wife, Minnie, came to collect him, and Shel came and got Dean. She pulled him out to section of grass they'd decided was the "dance floor". She made him dance with her, with a minimum of arm-twisting. Here and there in the yard were trees with Christmas lights twisted in their branches, and they looked cool even with the extension cords weaving every which way. 

It was weird…how much he liked it, how pretty he thought it all was. And Shel. Shel looked beautiful in this light; Dean held her as they moved slow circles together, she curved into him, soft curves molding to him. He felt the way she pushed in to him slightly, and wished that Sam was there instead. He sighed at the turn his thoughts had taken—again—and swirled Shel around and around until she was laughing helplessly and the last bit of tension between them died. 

Minnie and George also took a turn around the "dance floor" before leaving and Dean's smile amped up as he watched them. They looked so damn content together—like they were almost part of each other, they moved so smoothly together. He watched them, wishing for the same, when it hit him—he _had_ that. He did have a partner who knew him so well that they moved together without needing words, they moved in synch, so much that at times, they breathed together. He'd always had that.

Ralph, Shel's brother, and his wife drifted past them, Frankie and his wife…it was nice. They all looked happy, content. He kissed Shel's cheek. "Thanks, beautiful lady, but I'm going to sit the rest of this dance out."

She patted his arm, and let Howard step in and sweep her up. Dean headed back to the picnic table, followed by Frankie, with his hands full of beers. Frankie and Ford sat with him, nodding their heads to the beat of the music. Sam was…where was Sam?

Like he'd been called up, Sam came lumbering around the corner, followed a by a barking Fi and Panda. He was covered with kids, hanging off his legs, his arms, and he was laughing like…Dean choked up. Laughing like he hadn’t since…shit, Dean had no idea when. But there he was, his baby brother, smiling from ear to ear, those damn killer dimples out in full force. It was a motherfucking miracle.

Sam was _laughing._

Dean wiped his eyes. "Fucking gnats," he growled, and someone behind him put a warm hand on his shoulder and squeezed. It was Howard. 

"Hey, what's up, Howie?" Dean managed to keep his voice level, but he couldn't keep his eyes off Sam.

"Don't worry so hard, dude. You just need to—if you don’t mind me butting in—you just have to hold on, man, like Sam has." He squeezed a little harder, and then let go with a slap to Dean's back. "Hold on."

"Yeah." Dean nodded, eyes still locked on his brother, running around the yard with sprinklers in both huge mitts, kids whooping and chasing after. "Yeah, I know."

Clean up time came and to Dean's surprise, most of the folks actually helped. He'd lost Sam again but found him as he was taking the garbage out back of the garage. Sam was leaning against the house wall, with Howard way in his personal space. They were talking, about what Dean couldn't make out, but Sam had his serious face on, as well as Dean could tell in the dark. He was nodding every so often and Howard reached out and settled his hand on the back of Sam's neck. Dean didn’t care for that at all. He felt an instant hot flare of… _something_ when Sam suddenly threw his head back and laughed. That hot burst whooshed through his body like wildfire. It turned jagged and sharp—dark like ashes—when Howard and Sam hugged. 

Dean whirled around and marched back to the house. He was folding chairs and stacking them on Shel's brother's truck, when Sam came up behind him and punched him in the arm. "I saw you back there. Idiot."

Dean dropped his head, and refused to look at Sam, busying himself with the chairs. 

"Don't worry; Howard is…he's just trying to be a friend." Sam pulled on Dean's sleeve until he turned to face him. "It's nice to have a friend, but my best friend lives right there," he pointed at their house. "And he's got a really cool car and…he's," Sam hesitated, licked his lip and said, "and he's smoking hot. 

Dean felt his face go warm…he rubbed at his cheeks and laughed, quietly, leaned back when Sam gently pulled him back to rest against him. "Hot, hunh? I don’t know about that. I hear he's kind of chewed up and full of issues."

"Hunh—issues. We all have issues." Sam's arms went a little tighter, seemed to sense Dean's weakening resolve like a shark smelling blood in the water. _Sam's way,_ Dean thought… _catch you at your most vulnerable and then make you think it was your idea._ He let Sam wrap his arms around him. _What the hell, right?_ He patted Sam's hands where they were locked together over his stomach, Sam's thumbs sketching circles right over his belt buckle. "You know you're a terrible human being, Sam," he said, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice.

"Yeah, I know," he said and sounded so happy, so pleased with himself, that it made Dean laugh out loud.

* * *

Finally, the last person cadged a last plate of food--for their cousin or grandma or some bullshit--and went home, leaving the Winchesters alone.

It was full dark now, and the music that had blared all evening was quiet, soothing. Sam was parked on Baby's hood, beer in hand. He gave Dean a wide open smile when he saw him and reached out to pull Dean close, so that they were pressed together from hip to calf.

It was nice, just him and Sam and the quiet. They kicked back on Baby's hood, staring up at the night sky, and naming constellations—making shit up, just like they'd done when they were kids. They had one bottle of beer and shared it, just like those old, old days.

"Look, there's Bluto," he said and Sam snorted, then choked on a mouthful of beer, laughing like a nutjob when he could breathe again. "What?" Dean asked, grinning too, but a little puzzled—Bluto was funny but not that funny.

"Over there, above the Chastity Belt. There's—there's the Come Shot," Sam gasped, and broke into giggles; Dean laughed so hard he almost slid off the car. 

"Oh my god…you remember that one? Fuck, I was so drunk—thought I was so funny—"

Sam reached down and grabbed Dean by the collar; helped him slide back up until he was lying shoulder to shoulder with Sam again. "Hell yeah, I remember that, you made me pee myself, I was laughing so hard." Sam sighed happily. "That first semester at school, I worked the night shift at this café, and I'd look up at the stars when I was walking home—every single time, I'd laugh, thinking about that night, y'know? Made me feel less alone, those early days."

"Yeah, well that's good, I'm glad you could laugh—that I made you laugh," Dean said, feeling kind of proud of himself. 

"Hmm." 

Sam shimmied a little so that his head rested on Dean's shoulder, like it had been back then, when they didn't worry as much about being close. Only back then, Sam hadn't had to scoot down to do it. Dean tapped Sam's forehead. "Up," he said and Sam rolled his shoulders upwards so Dean could slide his arm under his head. 

"I missed that," Sam said. Shit, I missed— _miss—_ how we used to be, so easy with touching and, and stuff like this."

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice cracking when his throat went suddenly dry. He remembered when it was easier—he also remembered the day it'd gone a little awkward. A day they'd spent at a lake, pretending to hunt some ghost or whatever Sam's imagination had spun out—all day in the sun, in the water. When they'd gone home, they'd tumbled into bed worn out. Sam sprawled across him, bare chest to bare chest, snoring like a buzz saw while he'd laid there with his dick digging in Sam's hip. He'd blamed it on hormones and puberty, but that night had been the start of him silently pulling away from Sam, bit by bit, stealthy like a ninja…because maybe it hadn’t been puberty so much. Or it had, but add Sammy to the mix: cute, innocent, vulnerable Sam….

Dean had figured back then they both needed their space but now, maybe now things were different.

Sam stretched upwards a bit and stopped a breath away from Dean's mouth. "Is this okay? I mean…I, I think I'm getting some signals here, I could be wrong. Just tell me…"

Dean met him that microscopic distance; he pressed his mouth against Sam's. They kissed.

It was…

It was…well, okay. It was…kinda like kissing your brother. Hell, it was like kissing your _grandma._

Dean pulled away, fixed his gaze on his suddenly fascinating knuckles. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam wiping at his mouth, a look Dean couldn’t quite make out on his face. 

He knew how to handle this situation, though. He slid off the car. "Welp, gotta hit the hay. Work calls and all that—" he practically ran to his room. Yelled out, "Dibs first shower!" and dashed into the bathroom. He stripped with single minded concentration and then scrubbed himself like…like a Silkwood shower.

He was washing his dick, and washing turned into a slow, reflective kind of jerking off. He found himself thinking about Sammy's eyes, and how they were and weren’t like his, Sam's stomach and where the fuck did he get a six pack from, none of the other Winchesters had had one…kind of unfair, that…Sam's legs. A little skinny compared to his but muscled and tight, and long, so fucking long…he bet they'd look hot thrown over someone's shoulders, or trailing the length of the bed…provide some serious leverage for fucking…"Shit…" he squeezed a little, getting a jolt right through him. His balls tightened, precome blurted out and trailed a long silvery thread to his knees, knees he'd bent and spread wide because he'd had to lean against the wall, they were shaking so bad. 

In his mind, he and Sam kissed again, but this time, the kiss was hotter—wetter, deep, full of tongue and teeth—and Sam's giant hand worked his zipper down so he could shove into Dean's pants and wrap that fucker around his dick. Tight—short, hard, fast strokes, tight to just this side of pain, he liked it like that—"Fuck!"

Well, hell…coming that fast was a surprise…damn. Obviously, he had no problem imagining Sam and him, no problem at all. A shudder wracked him, little aftershocks made him gasp the second he thought about Sam. 

So, what had happened? 

Maybe it was supposed to stay a fantasy, just stay behind that wall between the inside of his head and the real world outside…Dean rubbed water out of his eyes and stepped out onto the mat. _Chump._ Only he would mourn the loss of something he'd never even had.

* * *

The room was dark and close and Dean cursed himself for thinking that getting ACs for the bedrooms was a waste of money for a temp place…especially when the temp thing was looking a little less temp all the time. He rolled his shoulders up and stripped off his sticky undershirt and flung it, contemplated taking off his boxers too, but decided he was too lazy. The sheet covering him felt like it weighed a million pounds, pinning him to the bed with its prickly weight.

He was just drifting off again when his door opened, slowly. He stared through the darkness, wondering. Not afraid—there wasn't a damn thing that could get in their little place. "Safe haven," he snorted softly to himself.

"Dean?

He sat up, fully prepared to argue that he did not just jump like he'd been shot…"Yeah…?"

"I can't sleep, and—and there's. There's noise. Can I…" 

Sam was standing in the doorway, and Dean thought, there's nothing funnier than a six four wall of muscle wringing their hands like an old maid…well fuck, it really wasn't all that funny at all…."C'mon, get in here," he said and flung back a corner of the sheet. He couldn't see the look of gratitude on Sam's face, not in the darkness, but he was damn sure it was there--he knew his kid through and through. 

Sam slid in next to him, made a little business about settling down—let out a huge, gusty sigh when he finally did settle. They were quiet, both of them on their backs, breathing a little too evenly in the darkness. The silence grew, getting heavier and heavier until Dean felt forced to break it. "So…it was a nice night, hunh?"

"Yep. Had a good time." 

Short and to the point, Dean thought. Good. And then his stupid mouth kept moving. "Those kids, hunh?"

"Yep. So…I was thinking about that kiss—"

 _Gaaah—fuck._ Dean bit the inside of his cheek. When the fuck would he _ever_ learn not to poke shit he didn't have to? "Sammy…"

"Wait, let me try something," Sam said, and reached out slowly, giving Dean plenty of time to avoid him if he wanted. Dean held still and let Sam wrap a hand around his wrist. "I like touching you. It helps--everything," Dean heard him say, and that made him feel bad. He could have done this, this kind of touching, all along, if it would have helped. He felt a warm wave of pleasure; he could do this for Sam. He could hold him down, no problem.

He tried to curl his hand around Sam's but Sam wouldn't let him, he just brushed his thumb over and over the inside of his wrist. Sam's grip on him was warm, but not bad warm. Good actually, and getting better. That warm wave of pleasure swelled, changed—became more, centered right between his chest and his…his….

"Dean," Sam whispered it right in his ear. When had he gotten so close? Dean shivered and closed his eyes and waited. It came again. "Dean…" 

Sam's lips moved over his cheek. They were warm and dry and he felt the little bow of Sam's upper lip pull against the roughness of his unshaven cheek, the pointed tip of his tongue tracing the curve. Dean turned a little, and then the tip traced along his lip, tickling. Dean angled his head upwards, opened, and Sam's tongue was in his mouth—he felt the gasp as Sam sucked in air, felt his dick jerk where it was pressed against his thigh.

"Dean—don't—" Sam moaned, and Dean jerked back, but Sam stopped him from pulling completely away. "No, I mean, don’t unless you mean it, I mean want it—for you, not just me."

He tried to fold more of himself around Sam, tried to tell him with his body that he wanted it—so much—for himself as well as Sam. There was no choice in this; he'd never really had one. "Well, yeah, I mean it. I wouldn't unless I did, you _know_ that."

"Hmm," Sam hummed in his mouth; it must have been agreement because he kissed Dean again. 

This kiss was— _this_ was the kiss he'd hoped for. This kiss…it blew past every barrier Dean had erected to keep, well, to keep himself from ending up here. Hard and needy and desperate for Sam. 

Sam kissed him; he twined their legs together, he slid one huge hand down Dean's belly, rubbing the tips of his fingers through the trail of hair pointing to his dick—light scratching motions that made his nerves sing and his dick definitely stand up and take notice. The heat, the amount of skin that hand covered made him shiver—made him feel small and safe and. Well… _desired._ Cherished, something. It was a stupid thought and a weird way to feel—

Honestly, he liked it—he could grow to love it.

Sam took Dean's hand and settled it over his own dick and then moved his hips a little, sort of accidental thrusts that heated everything up. Dean kissed like he'd never allowed himself to do before, let go of any little surveillant bit of himself because he was _safe._ Sam would look out for him. 

His tongue swept lazy arcs through Sam's mouth, getting off on exploring all the hot wet spaces he could—loving it, the feel, the idea of it. _Kissing Sam._ Dean rubbed himself against Sam as he kissed him, because it pulled these growly, greedy, little noises out of him—fuck, he loved that. He loved the slick heat inside Sam's mouth, too, and the occasional hard scrape of teeth—they wouldn’t be Winchesters without liking a little pain in their pleasure. He laughed into the kiss and Sam pulled back with a wet smile, "What?" 

"Just…you know. Do you…should we…damn, I don't really know how to ask this…" Or maybe didn't even need to. Sam was smiling at him, nodding. His smile wobbled a bit—nerves, Dean figured, sure, hell yeah, this was a step that was, well, it was a big step—

"Hey, you okay?" Sam whispered. He reached out to hook fingers over Dean's boxers when Dean breathed a yes, and pulled them down. Dean groaned at the smooth feel of Sam's hands on his bare skin, and then, his dick was free, hard and leaking against Sam's belly. Sam wiggled, pulling his own down, all the way off, and shoving them to the floor. 

"Oh, fuck, holy shit, god damn…" Sam was _naked_ in his _bed,_ long, long legs tangled up with his, hair brushing against hair, hot skin against skin. It felt so, so good, Dean couldn't help moaning, his hips pushing forward without him meaning to, it was okay though. Sam gasped and said, "Yes, damn it," and pushed right back, kind of grinding against Dean before gathering his dick into his hand. He had a nice grip, good technique, too—squeeze, sooth, sweeping his fist from base to head, until Dean lost all track of his thoughts and only felt _good, good, fuck, so good._ He couldn’t gather enough brain cells together to reciprocate, he just made a tunnel of his fist and let Sam fuck it. 

Turned out to be a good idea. Sam got harder, hotter in his hand, the moan he let loose vibrated into Dean's neck, competing with the noise Dean was making. Who knew it'd be like fucking mind-boggling to feel Sam's dick sliding across his palm, leaving hot slick all over his hand? That Sam shaking and gasping and mouthing wet trails all over his neck and face would twist him out to such a ridiculous degree? 

It wasn't long before Sam went stiff all over, his hips snapping in rapid-fire little jerks as he stuttered through an orgasm that left Dean wet from palm to wrist, smeared all over as Sam rode his own slick to a moaning, gasping, finish. It was so _fucking_ hot, and all it took for Dean to follow, biting down hard on his lower lip as he came. 

It was good—fuck, it was better than any sex he could remember. He wiped goop all over Sammy's side of the sheets, barely able to huff a laugh when Sam complained. He was nice enough to wipe Sam off, too—still using Sam's side of the sheets. He flopped to his back, but it got cold, so he eased closer to Sammy because he was a human furnace. 

Dean didn’t do cuddling. So this was not cuddling—it was survival. His legs got cold so he had to twine them with Sam's and his hands got cold so he had to shove them under Sam and his nose was inexplicably chilly, and Sam had this nice, warm spot right under his chin…."S'cold."

"It's July, Dean…how cold can it be…?" Sam muttered sleepily. His arms shot out and wrapped Dean up, reeled him in tighter and Dean went right with it, weaving himself right into Sam's space. He tried to quiet a happy sigh, but Sam just stuck his nose into the side of Dean's face and rubbed it through his side burns.

"Knew you’d be a snuggler," Dean heard, right before he drifted off to sleep. He would have scoffed if he had the strength.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Sam** _  


Sam woke up in stages…aware of warmth, then weight, then smell…beads of sweat rolled down his side, tickling as it went. He felt the weight—and the tickly rills of sweat—along his hip, his arm, one leg. He blinked, frowned and then he smiled. _Right._ The weight was Dean.

Sam inhaled deeply, and slowly let it out in a sigh. He'd fallen asleep with Dean wrapped up in his arms, but woke up on his side with Dean behind him, almost on top of him. Felt good….

"Go back t'sleep," he heard. He thought about it…sleep or shower. They smelled rank—pits and come and morning breath. He was sweating like a pig, the room was hot and airless and his brother's body sprawled over his radiated heat like a furnace. Grease and sweat glazed every bit of his skin, and his hair was plastered to his scalp with it. And he gave not one shit. 

"M'gon, 'kay…" he mumbled and drifted off again; all those things that _should_ have him sprinting to a scalding shower, instead lulled him under again. It was nice to feel so completely _safe,_ in a way he hadn't felt since he was a little kid.

He woke up later because something was moving against him, something hot, soothing. It took his sleep-fogged brain a couple of minutes to make sense of what was happening—the soothing sensation he'd felt as he woke was Dean's hand kneading his hip. Dean was moving in small, slow thrusts, like he was still mostly asleep. Sam adjusted, moved so that Dean was riding the cleft of his ass and shuddered when the shift resulted in Dean's dick skating his hole—it was perfect, the way he was riding the rim, just enough to make nerve endings sing. Dean's hand moved from Sam's hip to his dick and began working him, a tight warm tunnel to fuck into. 

_"Fuck—"_ Sam groaned, maybe sobbed a little but it was just that damn _good._ Heat, pressure, the zing when the crown of Dean's dick snagged on his hole, pulled a little, sunk in a little—Sam shivered and clenched and Dean cursed. Sam felt the hot flood of Dean's come wash up his back, and managed to come right along with Dean, wetting his hand and smoothing the glide. Dean kept it up until Sam had to make him stop. 

"Ah, shit, Sammy…" Dean's lips nuzzled the back of his neck, his nose pressing into the top of his spine. Sam felt it when Dean inhaled with a happy mutter, began rubbing his nose into his hair, across his skin. "You smell good, you smell like Sam again," he muttered and then stiffened slightly. Sam squeezed Dean's arm where it lay over his hip. He understood. It was okay. He was just glad to be alive and glad to be here with Dean…except right now that asshole was wiping spooge across Sam's chest, rubbing it into his pubic hair and his skin and _damn it—_ "Dean! Such a jerk!"

He flailed behind himself, trying to smack his asshole brother but Dean managed to deflect him and leaped out of bed, racing to grab the shower before Sam could. Sam sat up, grumbling and cursing at Dean…smiling the whole time because Dean couldn't see it. "You're a _jerk,_ Dean," he yelled.

"Ah, you know you love me," Dean shouted back. 

Sam fell back on the bed. He grabbed Dean's pillow, punched it up and shoved it under his head. "Yeah," he murmured, "always have."

* * * 

Sam wandered the paint supply aisle, poking at various tapes and brushes and rollers. He ran his hand over one that was as thick and plush as Fidus. He dropped it in the basket, along with a couple of roller cages and a roll of blue tape. He consulted his list again. "Plastic drop cloth," he muttered and searched the shelves. It was one section over from the tape. He picked up two of the cheapest ones and tossed them in the basket as well.

He scowled—his stupid brother was treating him like a child again…a not very bright child, at that. Dean had decided that Sam was just fine picking up the items on his detailed list, but Dean himself was picking out the colors they'd paint the bedrooms. Like Sam had no taste. He'd learned a lot from Dean's DIY wet dreams—kind of been forced to out of self-defense. And he did have some sense of design, for Christ's sake…he could draw sigils in no time flat, and keep all the pertinent bits just right. Plus he could do it on a minute's deadline and keep it crisp, even using spray-paint. So.

Okay, maybe that wasn't much of an applicable skill in the civilian world. Not unless he took up tagging shit....

"Yo, Sleeping Beauty, over here and look at this paint chip."

Sam shook himself out of his bizarre daydream to find everyone in the aisle looking his way—either suspiciously or amused—while his brother waggled his stupid eyebrows and grinned like a…like Dean. Seemed having sex with the man hadn’t made him any less obnoxious. Sam heaved a sigh and strolled over to the bank of paint chips Dean was having an orgasm over. He peered down at the fan of bluey-grey chips Dean held with anticipation written all over his face. Apparently they were all different shades, but he only had Dean's word for that. _Yes, Sam, these are different shades for god's sake, are you even listening to me, what the hell?_

It wasn't that he didn't listen to Dean. He listened to Dean, he really did. It wasn't his fault he tended to get distracted by Dean's mouth nowadays. 

Dean yammered on and Sam's eyes slid side-ways, towards a line of pink paint chips. He spent a pleasant few seconds in his head, trying to decide which shade of pink more closely matched Dean's lips and then wondered which shade of pink Dean's mouth would be after giving a blow job…

"Sam, you listening?"

"…head?" _What? What the hell…_ he blinked at Dean, guppying, because really, what the hell? His subconscious…must be _Dean-infected,_ that was the only explanation for…for it suddenly being sex-crazed and out of control. But of course Dean wasn't put off by his lack of self-control, oh no.

"What—right now?" Dean asked, his green eyes going a murky forest-green. One corner of his mouth turned up in that annoying, definitely-not-sexy smirk that Sam couldn't believe was turned on him. Helplessly, he watched, transfixed, as Dean ran his tongue along his bottom lip, rolled it into his mouth and _popped_ it out. The pink that had jumpstarted the sex-crazed part of Sam's brain deepened.

Awareness of being in a public space brought Sam out of his lust-fueled trance. He quickly shook his head, _"No!_ No, I meant…well, yeah, I wouldn’t mind. Just, _here?"_

"Amateur." Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed his arm. "Come on; get your head back in the game…heh."

Sam's cheeks were burning. He resisted looking at the damn paint chips, manfully ignored the damn mouth that started the whole thing. "Pick a color, for god's sake, before I choke you," he growled. 

Dean snickered and rifled through his chips again. Sam leaned against the bank of chips and surreptitiously palmed a few shades of the pink. Just…because….

* * * 

Sam watched as Dean cheerfully rolled a giant, grayish W onto Sam's bedroom wall, stepped back and grinned. "There we go." The color looked okay… _'Pensive Sky',_ he'd had called it, _'suits you, Sammy.'_ …Dean thought he was fucking hysterical.

Sam huffed, loading his own roller, annoyed that Dean was wasting time playing around. 

Dean rolled his eyes. "Unbunch, Samantha. There's a method to my madness. This—" he pointed at the W with his wet roller, "gets filled in—helps so you don't get lap marks—you'll see what I'm talking about. We'll get a nice smooth finish…" he smiled at the wall like it was a pet. 

"You really, really like this stuff, don’t you?" Sam quirked a smile at his brother, who looked entirely too satisfied. "This is…you're really skilled at this. I gotta say, this whole…" Sam swung his roller wide. _"This._ You have…you have great taste. Great sense of design. Hunh."

"Hey, assface, don’t sound so damn surprised," Dean said and flipped him off. Sam laughed; Dean grinned, appeased, and went back to work. 

Sam wielded his roller like an axe, seriously covering the nineteen-eighties lilac walls with _'Pensive Sky',_ which Sam found he really did like, after all. He kept glancing at Dean as he worked, the content he'd felt at first seeping slowly away. 

There was so much that Dean kept hidden, feelings and hopes and desires that he wouldn't share. He'd seen the barely hidden longing on Dean's face whenever they stopped at some small-town ball field to watch local teams play. Remembered Dean joking about wanting to be a fireman, a cop…maybe not so much joking after all…Dean would have made a _great_ cop, a great fireman. 

Sam remembered the clever EMF meter Dean had made, the one he'd mocked back then when he was young and stupid, trying to pull away from Dean and feeling superior to him. He'd forgotten how Dean used to do things like that all the time when they were kids. He'd scavenge broken radios and stuff out of the garbage and almost always get them running again. He could fix the car blind-folded; he knew construction inside and out, and Sam was discovering, he had a real understanding of design, a lot like Jess'….

Naturally on the heels of those memories, came others—he remembered too, how desperately he'd wanted away from Dean and Dad when he was a teenager, wanted out of this hunting life. He'd wanted to have normal, ached for the average and a life where he could be… _anything_ but this. Someone different. He'd wanted it desperately, and it was only now that he wondered if maybe Dean had wanted something like that as well. 

Dean could have been _anything,_ had anything…if he'd ever been given a chance. If he'd ever felt the slightest bit of selfishness, had some lack of loyalty to a man who'd loved them but who'd still fed them into the meat grinder of his revenge. On the heels of that thought came the sting of tears; he managed to Winchester them away. He leaned his forehead against an unpainted bit of wall—just for a breather, he needed a second or two to get himself right again. 

"Sam…hey, Sam, you okay?" the worry in his brother's voice nearly broke Sam's hard-won calm. Dean dropped his roller and was in front of Sam before he could breathe again—Dean's warm, solid hands gripped Sam's forearms, rode up to his shoulders, cupped his face. "You need to rest, baby?" he asked—and winced. Sam let out a watery chuckle, and Dean searched his face before smacking Sam's head. "Shudup. Forgot you weren’t a girl for a sec, that's all."

Sam dropped his head to Dean's shoulder and wrapped his arms around him. Dean stiffened for a moment before relaxing so quickly and totally it felt like he melted. "Dean…" Sam sighed, and then whispered, "I don't mind. I think…I kind of liked it?"

"Sap," Dean said and Sam let him go, let Dean move away like Sam knew he would. It didn't worry him or upset him. He knew his brother. He'd have to process that a bit, the fact that Sam didn't mind being showed how important he was, that he liked pet names and in-jokes and special touches and all of it. He smiled to himself and picked up the roller again, loaded it with paint and swiped a giant W on the wall.

* * * 

Sam slept in Dean's room while they painted his. When it came time to paint Dean's room, they switched to Sam's room, Sam's bed. They painted Dean's room a paler, cooler version of Sam's-- _'Salt Glaze'…_ naturally. Sam snorted. Macho jerk. Still, it was nice. Restful, Sam thought, if a little too safe. He liked the warmer tones of his own bedroom walls. During the course of painting Dean's room, a garage-sale find desk ended up in one corner, along with an old-fashioned office chair. Sam figured, if nothing else, Dean would enjoy the fact it was on a really slick set of wheels. He moved the bookcase from his room into Dean's, pulling a few more books from their stash and shelving them. Made the room look…good. Useful. He didn't want to say 'made it look like a study' because that would sound too…permanent. Hopeful. Something….

The war bag migrated too, from the downstairs hall closet to the basically unused closet in Dean's room. Since Sam mostly did the laundry, he decided where the clothes went and Dean's clean clothes started to fill up the dresser in Sam's room. It'd always been too big for all Sam's stuff alone. When he bitched about Dean leaving his shoes in the middle of the floor, Dean bitched right back and took them upstairs, tossed them in Sam's room. 

Sam's bed moved from being shoved tight against one wall to being centered there, and Dean picked a side. When more of Dean's clothes were hanging in his closet than Dean's, Sam figured it was about time to tell him that they only had one bedroom, and they were sharing it.

"Hunh," Dean said. Sam glared at Dean, annoyed by the way Dean glanced all around the bedroom, nervous, unsure. He'd been sleeping with Sam the last few weeks, but apparently he'd been thinking that if he never mentioned it, Sam wouldn't notice that they were cohabitating. Like Sam hadn't been the one to ninja Dean's stuff into this one room in the first place. "Sharing a room," Dean said "…kinda…figured you'd want a space all to your own."

Sam punched him in the ribs and slapped the back of his head when he folded. "That's what the porch is for, dumb-ass. This is our bedroom now. _Ours."_

"Great, Sammy," Dean wheezed. "Hope I live to enjoy it," he muttered.

"Go get the rest of your shit out of the office, you big baby."

* * * 

__  
**Sam**

There was a chill in the air now…October already, Sam thought. His breath steamed out in little gray plumes as he jogged up the street, Fidus running happily at his side. It was quiet, most of the street still asleep or just starting to wake. The shssh-shssh of the leaves they ran through was loud in the silence, nice…reminded him how fast the summer had slipped away.

They'd been in their little house nearly seven months—that was almost the record for them staying in one place. He swallowed, blinked hard. Well, together, anyway….

Someone shouted a hello—not to him, to the dog. Sam grinned. Good old Fidus, ever faithful, he thought—unless one of their neighbors happened to be on their porches, or someone offered him a treat, in which case he'd leave Sam's side faster than a gunshot—knock him down if he had to. Sam cocked an eye at the panting dog, who looked up at him with a broad, damp smile. Sometimes that dog really reminded him of Dean. 

By the time they got home, the morning chill had burned off and it was rapidly warming up. Sam fished a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and spread it on the counter. He read through it quickly, and then refolded it. He was gathering together eggs and spices, trying to remember what they had in the fridge that would make a decent omelet, when his brother came strolling into the room.

Judging by the way his hair was standing up in damp spikes, Dean had already showered—dressed even. Sam had gotten used to Dean wandering around for most of the morning in a ratty old robe from somewhere and the ugliest fleece sleep pants on the planet, pants whose only saving grace was that they hung so low, Sam could see the crack of his ass—normally not a plus but he had to admit, his brother had the sweetest ass on the planet…it curved just so, perfectly designed to fit the palm of his hand, when he curved both hands around Dean's ass, his fingertips grazed that pretty little crease, and—

"Did you hear me?" Dean asked. He was pushing his phone into his pocket with a frown. 

"Nah, was thinking about—" he coughed, grinned weakly. "Y'know. Stuff…" He leaned into the fridge and fished out peppers and some ham, just coincidently hiding his burning face. 

"That was Frank on the line…he said he's getting ready to pull up stakes and he'll send us notice when he's settled again." Dean stared at Sam and then out of the window. "I can't believe summer's gone already...it's fall. We should…" he stopped and shook his head. "Well, we're better off not doing anything until we hear from Frank again. 'Sides, he says it's real quiet right now. No activity, no sign of anything."

Sam nodded and gave his attention to the pepper he was chopping up. "They gave up maybe?"

"You just said that to hear what it sounded like, right? You know those things won't give up. Sam…"

"I _know._ Just…you're right. We should wait for Frank. Have you heard from Meg?" he asked, in a completely transparent attempt to change the subject. Dean smiled ruefully but followed Sam's lead.

"Not yet, it's a little early in the week to hear from her. I was gonna call this weekend anyway."

"Yeah, okay. So, sit, eat, and before you make a face, Donnie gave me pointers on how to make the 'perfect omelet'."

"Cool—hell, if he managed to teach you just to make an _edible_ omelet, he's my hero."

"Shut the fuck up," Sam huffed. 

Dean sat, grabbed his plate and stuffed a huge forkful of egg into his mouth. "S'hnotbah." 

He grinned up at Sam, and Sam let everything he felt for Dean show on his face. Dean blushed and looked down, his grin softened into a small smile. Fuck, Sam wanted that—he wanted Dean to smile like that forever. He leaned against the sink, glancing out the window as he ran water into the pan. There were still lights in the trees from the cook out they'd had back in July, the picnic table Dean had made was still in the middle of the yard…fold-up chairs were still leaned against one of the sheds. It looked like a completely normal yard out there; it looked like a completely normal home inside, all suburban and white-picket fence style, god, like they were average people with normal lives. _Yeah. Average folks…sure._ He grabbed his plate and sat with Dean. 

Between grinding disgustingly huge mouthfuls of food to a pulp, Dean managed to say, "Funny you mentioning Donnie just then. The Boys came in during my shift at the store yesterday. Want us to come for Thanksgiving dinner. Whatd'ya say?"

Sam looked up from his plate, thinking about just him and Dean and a cozy, private dinner…just the two of them, cooking a whole, raw turkey, making sides from scratch and dessert of some kind, pie, cookies…them, all by themselves…"Dinner, hunh? Think we can get away with just bringing booze?"

"Why not?" Dean shrugged. "So I'll tell them yeah?" He dropped his toast on the floor like an animal, letting the actual animal snap it up. Sam didn’t even waste his breath complaining. 

"Yeah, unless you were really looking forward to us trying to cook a turkey with all the trimming."

"Well, Sam, we could, but I think it'd be great to spend a nice Thanksgiving with our friends." 

He pursed his lips, raised his eyebrow in that _look._ Dean thought it made him look commanding, but actually it just made him look like he was constipated. He flipped Sam a douchy little salute and headed for the stairs, leaving Sam open-mouthed with shock behind him. "Who the hell _are_ you?" Sam whispered and Fidus wagged his tail.

* * * 

Thanksgiving was great—Donnie was one hell of a cook, and Ford wasn't bad either. He and Dean were gently guided towards doing the prep work and the in-between-clean up, and they were more than happy with that. Between them all, dinner ended up being pretty damn good. And not just dinner—there was a dessert spread that was _ridiculous,_ but as the day progressed it became apparent why. There was a non-stop flow of people, in and out of the house, all day long. A few stayed to watch the game and bitch; some came just to load up on food—turkey and homemade cakes and pies.

Dean commented that this town had no shame and Sam had to agree. But this town was also miraculously tolerant and embracing so…Donnie swore his pies had a lot to do with that. 

"Bribery?" Dean asked.

"Incentive," Donnie replied. "Act up and you get nothing." 

Dean nodded, "Wise, Mr. Don, very wise." 

Shelly swept in and lassoed Dean into helping her—she'd been in and out most of the day, and was now carting in beers and ice. Sam could see that she was flirting with Dean, but knew too that it was mostly out of habit. He didn't mind…couldn't blame her, really. Howard came by to grab some bread pudding, and stayed to share some funny bits of town gossip—he flirted a bit too, because he was like Dean that way. Sam appreciated it but not overtly because Dean wasn't quite as Zen about Howard as _he_ was about Shelly. 

Afternoon turned to evening, and George and Minnie came, late for dinner but they made up for it by bringing home-made dandelion wine, so all was forgiven. 

So that was Thanksgiving Day, the kind of day people reminisced about—a day full of people, family, of a sort—and Sam shocked himself by _enjoying_ it. He wasn't a recluse, not by nature…but he wasn't exactly a party kind of guy either. Dean…Dean was in his element, the Dean he rarely got a chance to be. He was holding court in the kitchen, where the guests flocked to—naturally. Sam couldn’t keep his eyes from him, the way he spoke with his hands, the way his eyes went wide, then narrowed with whatever tale he was spinning. His hair was doing that thing it did when it got wet—separating into little spikes. Whatever Dean was going on about, he was working up a sweat with it, he's gone somewhat red-faced from the kitchen's heat, from laughing, and from some really excellent scotch. He was all smiles and snapping green eyes and mischievous glances…beautiful, and so fucking sexy it hurt. 

He sighed, and Shelly poked him in the ribs. "Leave him be, he's enjoying himself." 

Sam wanted to bristle at her, but she was right. It was a good look on Dean: having fun like this, not worrying about Sam for a few minutes. 

Sam pulled on a smile; he even threw his arm around Shelly. Dean looked over at that moment, caught him pulling Shelly in close and smiled impossibly wider. He winked, and Sam knew he wasn't winking at Shelly. "He's so in love—the idiot," she whispered and Sam blushed—embarrassed, but pleased too, in a basic, caveman kind of way. Dean had that effect on him. 

Dean sauntered out of the kitchen to join them; a dinner plate in his hand that held sweet potato pie with a side of lemon cake and a few spoonfuls of bread pudding, everything wearing a top hat of whipped cream. He just grinned when Sam leveled a warning look at him and a glance at his waistline. Dean responded by tilting his face to Sam and kissing him, deeply and with intent. Sam might have acted on it if it wasn't for Dean's overloaded plate—and the audience, of course.

* * * 

After dessert and coffee, Sam ended up zoned out on the couch between Dean and George, trying to watch some old movie that they both knew word for word. It was more soothing than annoying, and he drifted off to sleep to the sound of his brother's voice.

He woke up, confused as to where he was. His heart was just beginning to go into overdrive before he recognized The Boys' living room. The TV was turned low and he was alone. He even had a throw tucked around his shoulders, just in case he wasn't embarrassed enough. He hoped he hadn't snored or—he wiped at his mouth quickly—drooled. "Damn tryptophan." He heaved himself off the couch and wandered back out to the kitchen, searching for Dean. 

He found him sitting with The Boys at their kitchen table, coffee mugs in hand, Donnie and Ford both wearing serious expressions. Fidus was sitting pressed to Dean's leg, his head on Dean's thigh and a hopeful tilt to his eyebrows. Dean stroked around the dog's ears in an absent-minded way. He was speaking, too quietly for Sam to catch, but his expression said he was talking seriously about something that held an emotional component—in other words, shit he didn't want to deal with but had to. Sam stepped into the kitchen and coughed. Dean startled, his face instantly arranged itself in a little smirk. "Yo, Sammy, finally. We were just getting ready to wake you up; we gotta go so these nice gentleman can go to bed."

Ford and Donnie both protested that the night was young, and they were ready to act like they were too, but judging by the yawns they tried to smother, it was later than Sam had figured it was. He glanced around the kitchen and blushed. Yep, he'd been out long enough for them to wash up pots and dishes and put all the food away. The kitchen sparkled like it hadn't been the site of a full out food prep explosion. 

"Sorry for sleeping through clean-up, guys. You should have woken me up." 

"No, no, no problem…" They waved him off, but didn't actually meet his eyes, sitting there with their identical looks of guilt and he _knew._ He looked down at Fidus, happily swishing his tail back and forth, sort of idly hoping for treats, back at Dean's drawn, sad face and he got it. He _hated_ it—but he understood. He gave Dean a weak little smile and turned away from the kitchen, blinking back the surprising sting of tears. 

Summer was long over, winter was on its way and he knew their time there was growing short.

* * * 

"Guess what I bought at work today? Remember the last time we had a tree? In that motel, right, the one that was in a tar bucket?"

Sam blushed. "Yeah, 'course I remember…" he wanted to laugh but was surprised with how much that memory _hurt._ He worked up a grin, said, "A kind of a Charlie Brown tree, wasn't it? But in an awesome way," he hastened to add at the look on Dean's face. 

"That's right," Dean said, smiling again. "Okay, so this tree is nowhere near as awesome as that one, but we need a tree. For this year, we need one." He peered at Sam as if he was going to argue with him.

"Yes, hell yes, we need a tree," Sam said. "with—with shiny— _stuff_ on it—is that a real tree?"

"Of course it's a real tree. There's no point to getting a fake one. And it's, unh, tradition. And it smells good."

Sam nodded. Christmas. No one dying or threatening to die. It'd be wrong not to take advantage. Carpe diem and all. He smiled at the tree, smiled wider at Dean. "Mistletoe. We should get some. Mistletoe has well known protective properties, y'know." Like that wasn't the lamest excuse ever to limp around being lame. He was kind of looking forward to molesting Dean every opportunity he got. 

Dean smirked, and pulled his coat open. "Oh, Sammy, I come prepared." There were a couple of sprigs in his bright orange vest pocket. 

Sam snorted, "I thought for sure you were going to have it stuck in your belt buckle." 

"Hey, I'm not that much of a horndo—wait, would you have gone for that?"

"Dean!"

"I'm just asking!"

* * * 

They decorated the tree with an insane amount of dollar store decorations—the picking up of the decorations had been an adventure in itself. Turned out that they'd both had very definite ideas of how the tree was supposed to look. It got loud, it got acrimonious—sort of typically Winchester, only Christmas-flavored, but mostly, it'd been…fun. A lot of fun.

Sam stood in front of the tiny tree, looking down at the simple plastic star on top. Dean had wanted a Death Star tree topper, but Sam won. The Death Star would have killed the tree and probably set the house on fire. The poor thing was kind of small and spindly, just slightly thicker than the tree they'd had that year. But fuck if he wasn't damn fond of it, and he kind of loved Dean for bringing it home. Home…Sam sighed, his shoulders lifting and dropping. Two more weeks until Christmas day. If Frank didn't call by New Year's Eve, they'd have do some serious thinking about their next steps.

* * * 

Sam had staggered out to the kitchen, disappointed not to smell breakfast cooking before he remembered it was Sunday and breakfast on a meant bagels and coffee or whatever they didn't have to cook.  
He had his elbows planted on the counter, nearly sleeping as he waited for the coffee to brew, and feeling pleasant little aches all over. Some of those achy spots were probably going to bruise…he shivered a little at the thought, and pulled the sweats he was wearing higher—they slipped back down to his hips the moment he let go. They were too short in the leg, and a little big in the waist. He had to stop wearing Dean's stuff—except for his socks, Dean always bought nice socks when he had the chance….

He pulled a hoodie on—one of his own—filled a bowl with cereal, and shooshed over to the back door. He leaned against the doorjamb, looking through the glass that replaced the screen for winter. He ate his cereal and watched Dean running around the yard with Fidus, laughing when he slipped in the thin snow cover. Of course, the dog took advantage, jumping all over him and licking what he could. It was a good morning. Sam wished for the thousandth time that this life they were living was a permanent thing. It could be, he thought. The way Dean looked at him, the way he looked at the house; Sam thought that maybe, someday, it could be. Would be. If both of them survived, if Cas really did permanently clear his belfry. If, if, if….

He dropped his empty bowl in the sink at about the same time Dean came in, shaking snow off and kicking his boots into a corner by the door. "It's snowing," he said.

"No shit, Sherlock. We've got some bagels left, and I think there might be some of that cinnamon bread stuff from the pizza place…"

Dean frowned. "Nah, maybe I'll make some pancakes," and Sam brightened. He liked the sound of pancakes. There might be some canned peaches to go with in the cabinet…

* * * 

They were eating pancakes, talking about everything and nothing. Dean got up to get more coffee. "I'm thinking of asking your best friend if he can get me a snow blower at a good price. So, whadaya say, come with me, maybe wear a skin tight shirt, maybe some of those things, those shorts where the ass hangs out—like Daisy Duke. Remember that? Hot."

"Yeah, thanks for pimpin' me out. And that's what they're called—daisy dukes. Asshole."

"I _said_ Daisy Duke, she wore—"'

"No, that's what the shorts are—you know what, never mind—" His phone went off, and he frowned at Dean. He couldn't imagine who'd be calling his number…he glanced at the screen. "It's Meg, why's she calling me?"

Dean quickly swallowed an outsize hunk of pancake and grimaced—"Shit, gimme your coffee." He grabbed Sam's cup without waiting for Sam to say yes or no, gulped half of it before Sam managed to get it back. "Thanks…yeah, I gave her your number, just in case." 

Sam hmm'ed. He wasn't pleased that Dean was giving out his number without asking—especially to _Meg,_ for god's sake. He didn't bother keeping his extreme lack of pleasure out of his voice. "Meg."

_'What up, Bullwinkle? Just a little FYI call. Your boy's awake.'_

* * * 

They gave Fidus to Ford and Donnie—handed him over and ran like the cowards they were. They made arrangements with Shelly to rent the place. Neither one of them could imagine a better person for their house. Shelly understood—she'd take good care of the place.

Their bags were packed—stuff they couldn't leave behind or Shelly shouldn't see, had already been packed and put back in the trunk. Whatever Shelly didn’t want but they were reluctant to give up, went in the attic or the garage loft. Dean nearly cried when he shut the garage door for the last time. "This is the nicest spot Baby's ever had. She got to live like a show car, Sam—like she deserves." 

Sam was so oddly touched by Dean's real sorrow for his car losing her bedroom that he pulled him into a hug. He stood there with his arms wrapped around Dean, listened to his breathing go a little unsteady, and just held him tighter—didn't mock him, not at all. 

He'd save that for when nights got particularly boring on the road.

* * * 

Sam was standing in the back yard, head tilted back to the sky, watching snowflakes falling, swirling down towards him. Felt like he was drifting free of the planet, falling deeper and deeper into the sky…he shut his eyes and shook his head. Yeah.

Sam's gaze turned towards the bottom of the yard, remembering how he almost broke his leg that first day here. Remembering how bitter and closed in and scared and hurt he'd felt. Everything was different now—It was almost unbelievable just _how_ different his life was now. He looked back at the house, each window lit, warm, welcoming…their house. Sam took a deep breath. Didn’t matter what else happened from this point on because they'd had this. A real home. 

Dean came out on the porch, not seeing Sam at first, so Sam got to see his brother in a totally unguarded moment. The smile on his face was sad, that slightly lop-sided smile he got when he wished that things could be different. And then he saw Sam and it got wider, softer. Dean's eyes could be so warm, so full of love, and that was what Sam saw when Dean looked at him. That was the moment he realized the truth of his life, so fundamental, so fucking basic that he wondered how in the fuck he'd never seen it before. This house…that's just what it was, a house—certainly _their_ house and he loved it. But _home?_ Home was wherever his brother was. Hell, Home _was_ his brother. Forever, and ever, amen.

"Hey, Sam. Inside, dude—it's too cold to be out here pretending to be Edward Cullen."

"Fuck you—I'll be right in."

"Okay, good. Um. Hurry up."

Sam just smiled as he walked towards Dean, hearing the _'I miss you'_ Dean wouldn’t say out loud, not where he might be overheard. He passed Dean in the doorway and Dean raised his hands and snagged Sam's jacket, pulled him close. Dean kissed him, his mouth shockingly warm against his. Sam closed his eyes and kissed him back, throwing every bit of himself into feeling it, feeling the slide of Dean's tongue against his, the sweet pinprick of his teeth scraping along sensitive skin…. lazy kisses that warmed his mouth and had him pressing Dean back against the door. Dean pushed back a little, took a shaky breath. "Hey, Sammy…I'm sorry that we couldn't stay. We'll come back someday, promise. Someday."

"Dude, by now, you really ought to know…" Sam stopped, shook his head, and started again—it was important that Dean got it, that he _understood._ "Man, everything I need, all I want—" he slapped Dean in the chest, left his hand resting there. "Right here, Dean, it's always been right here."

 ** _Dean_**  
They backed slowly down the driveway, Baby growling smoothly as they swung around, away from the house, their place. Dean felt…hell. He wasn't even sure how to describe it. They were losing stuff again. It's why he never liked collecting much, or staying in one place too long. It just led to making attachments and making attachments just led to…well, nothing happy. Except…Fi was going to be fine, no doubt. Donnie and Ford were going to spoil the shit out of him, make him into the happiest fucking dog in the world. Hell, it was going to be a much better life than what he'd have stuck in the car with them on the endless road…yeah, he was going to miss the hell out of that furry little fuck but…Dean squeezed the wheel, blinked hard for a second. At least for a little bit, they got to have him.

And it wasn't all bad—it could never be all bad, not when he had his car, in the best shape she'd been in for ages. Definitely not when he had his brother, sprawled next to him, taking up too much space. His hand slid over the warm solid curve of Sam's thigh. Sam looked up at him with a smile, that little, barely-there smile that for some reason always made Dean feel like he'd won the lottery.

What Sam had said the other night wasn't just true for him. Everything Dean really needed was right there, riding shotgun. That had always more than enough for Dean.

Fin  
8-21-2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually do author's notes but I want to thank everyone who's read this fic. I'm really surprised at the interest it got—and *thrilled*—because it was such a quiet little story about nothing much. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I'm glad folks had fun reading it. For all who left kudos, thank you *so* much, and thanks to all of you who left really *lovely* comments.
> 
> roxy :)


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